


Best Beware My Sting

by fishydwarrows, hoko_onchi



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Aggressive Shakespeare References, Alternate Universe - 10 Things I Hate About You (1999) Fusion, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Romantic Comedy, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blow Jobs, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Eventual Smut, F/F, Found Family, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Mutual Pining, Prom, Quentin Coldwater's Canonical Oral Fixation, Slow Burn, Taming of the Shrew AU, Theater AU, Unwitting Fake Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:48:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 120,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26115199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishydwarrows/pseuds/fishydwarrows, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoko_onchi/pseuds/hoko_onchi
Summary: “What’s better than coaxing an ornery, twitchy boy into bed?” Margo asked.“Coaxing his roommate into my bed,” Kady said.“Point, Kady,” Margo said.“I’m not doing it. I need a job.  Not a Quentin. I can’t afford to takeanyoneout. And he saidno. I’m going to be waiting tables in Jersey or—”“Working on a goat farm. I know,” Margo said. “I know you love goats. And drama. It makes sense.” Eliothatedgoats. Theireyes. They'dseenthings.Kady put her beer down with a thunk. “I’ll waive your rent for October.”“You’ll what now?”“I’ll pay for your date. Waive your rent. Just get Quentin to go to grad school prom with you so Julia will go with me.”“Jesus, Kady,” Margo drawled. “What’s this girl’s deal? Does her pussy taste like cotton candy?”Kady groaned. “I wouldn’t know.”
Relationships: Eliot Waugh/Mike (past), Julia Wicker/James (past), Julia Wicker/Marina (past), Kady Orloff-Diaz & Eliot Waugh, Kady Orloff-Diaz/Julia Wicker, Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Margo Hanson & Kady Orloff-Diaz, Margo Hanson/Fen, Quentin Coldwater & Julia Wicker, Quentin Coldwater/Alice Quinn (past), Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/James (past), Ted Coldwater/Original Character
Comments: 277
Kudos: 220
Collections: Magicians Happy Ever After





	1. My best beloved and approved friend

**Author's Note:**

> [Fic playlist here!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2LaIEy26FiCZ5oLx5bBAAU?si=pMFuToztTCiA79YK7csILQ)

~Eliot~

“Did you see Coffee Shop Boy today?” Margo looked up at him and quirked an eyebrow. So, she expected a report. Typical.

Eliot tipped his head back and sighed. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

“You get his number yet?”

“As a matter of fact, I didn’t.” Eliot put on the tea kettle and slung two scoops of their cheap-ass Aldi pre-ground coffee into the metal pour-over. It was tedious and irritating, and all for not-great coffee. But he’d spent his daily coffee stipend on a latte while waiting for a sighting of Coffee Shop Boy and his stupid long hair. And Eliot was broke. 

Margo was splayed across the couch in the communal living room they’d decorated with battered thrift store pieces and lovingly referred to as ‘bo-hobo-chic.’ It looked more hobo than either boho or chic, but they’d done the best they could on grad student stipends and bartending tips. And Kady—well she didn’t contribute to shit to do with cleaning or their important interior design ideas. It was part of her charm. Who was he kidding? She wasn’t the fuck charming at all. But she made more money than either of them, frequently disappearing to ‘gigs’ that Eliot suspected were illegal in _some kind of way_ , had gotten a fuckload of life insurance money (and personal trauma) from her mother shuffling off this mortal coil two years ago, and the rental agreement was all in Kady’s name. It was a decent townhouse just barely outside of the realm of convenience, settled in a not-so-up-and-coming neighborhood in the Bronx. And that was a big deal for both of them. After Margo’s parents had cut her off for her refusal to go to law school, well—they were both more dependent on Kady’s lease (and Kady’s grouchily magnanimous nature) than they liked to admit. 

“But when are you getting his number?” Margo was flipping through some film theory book on her iPad, fucking learning something he guessed. Grad school was a fucking bore. Eliot was only in school to delay his inevitable descent into being pretty and jobless. He’d eventually become a house husband for a rich older man who was always out of town. He’d spend his days window shopping, baking, and getting his nails done with Margo He’d written that down in his journal when he was eighteen (he’d added the Margo part last year—yeah, he still kept a journal, fuck you very much), and he’d be damned if he didn’t realize that particularly heavenly dream.

“Oh, let me check my schedule.” Eliot paused and poured boiling water over the coffee, watching it swirl in the metal cone. “That’s right. I don’t get numbers from boys who hang out at The Cinnamon Roll, no matter how cute they are. I’ve established this as part of my sterling reputation, and I’m not going back on it now.”

Really, it was his fault he told Margo about Coffee Shop Boy in the first place. But that first encounter had been too good to keep to himself. 

The first time he’d seen Coffee Shop Boy, it was apparent that he was a walking disaster in the approximate shape of a human. His shoulder-length hair was only half-brushed—all tangled in the back that particular day, like he’d rolled out of bed forty-five minutes late for class and forgotten how to groom himself halfway through his morning routine. He was arguing loudly into his phone while standing in line to get coffee, spluttering his way through a phone conversation with more cursing than was strictly necessary at a family establishment. ( _”No—fuck—yeah, I fucking know, Julia—no, I don’t need a rebound fuck—like you’re one to talk. I’m not adhering to your stupid fucking—dating plan. For absolute fuck’s sake, fucking ballsack of a fuck. Jesus fucking—fuck. Okay, Christ—I’m not fucking UberEats. But yeah. Okay fine. I’ll get a metric fuckload of tacos—yes, and the good nachos. Okay. O-Kay. I’ll see you at home._ ) 

When Coffee Shop Boy slipped his phone in the back pocket of his worn jeans (soft, but stretched delightfully over his very nice ass and very nice thighs), he turned and saw Eliot watching him, standing just a foot behind him. His deep brown eyes grew wide, his expressive brows lifting together in an odd little arch. “Oh, oh. I’m, um, sorry. Roommate. Needs tacos.”

Eliot had watched him turn bright red, his eyes darting all over the place, like he couldn’t face actually looking at Eliot. Like he might lift into the stratosphere _a la_ Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins. “No worries, darling. Looks like you’re up.” 

The Boy had turned to the barista, shoulders hunched, cheeks blazing, and he gave a stuttering order for a chai latte with two shots of espresso and a pumpkin scone. When he had retrieved his coffee, he gave Eliot an awkward half-wave and bolted out of The Cinnamon Roll, abandoning his pastry on the counter. 

The next time Eliot had seen him, he’d been tempted to buy him a scone and slip into the seat next to his, just so he could watch Coffee Shop Boy eat, getting crumbs on his soft, downturned lips. His face was so boyish, a delectable contrast to his strong jawline and broad shoulders. But he didn’t do that. Instead, he waved when Coffee Shop Boy got up to go. The boy had waved back, nearly dropping the armful of dogeared novels he was trying to slip into his battered messenger bag as he stared, wide-eyed, at Eliot. 

Eliot had seen Coffee Shop Boy four and a half times since then—not that he was counting—which was six and a half times total. (The half-time consisted of walking into the shop as he was walking out and nodding slightly in his direction.)

“Earth to Eliot. Pull your head out of your twat. I’m talking to you.”

“Yeah? What about, Bambi?” Eliot washed out the pour-over cone and set it out to dry in the dish rack. He added a few tablespoons of almond milk to the coffee. It was going to taste like burnt motor oil and almonds, but it was better than spending another five dollars—okay, seven dollars—on coffee at the Cinnamon Roll. Anyway, Coffee Shop Boy was done studying for the day. He had class on Tuesday afternoons. Not that Eliot knew. He was just observant. 

“I was commenting that no one but you gives a shit about your so-called bad boy reputation. You’re not as mysterious as you think. I know you, El. You touch up your eye makeup before you go out to ‘study.’ And you keep going at the same time on the same days of the week.”

“Dr. Phil says that one should create a routine in order to thrive. And this term, I’m thriving, Bambi. I really am. Studying. Keeping normal hours. Listening to Dr. Phil’s advice.”

“Did he really say that?”

Eliot shrugged. “Probably. Sounds like him.” He blew across the surface of his steaming coffee and took a sip. It was vile. “They have good coffee at the Cinnamon Roll. And I like the background noise when I read through scripts—”

“Since when do you read through anything?”

“I’m getting glowing reports from every one of my drama professors. Dear Mother and Father would be so proud of their genius child.” Eliot sipped at his coffee, wondering if he should abandon it for a caffeine pill. He should really budget for better coffee. But that would take away from his weekly latte stipend, and that was important. Dr. Phil probably also said he should treat himself since he was working so hard.

“Hm. Last I heard, you were barely passing. Or so you said when you were weepy and histrionic at the start of the semester—”

“Remember, I told you that never happened.” 

“Don’t gaslight me, dildo.”

“Like I said, I’m all about academic prowess now. I’m reading through scripts—”

“Stalking a boy—”

“—at the coffee shop. So that’s why I’m doing so well right now. And we’re doing The Shrew this term. The crowd will go wild, and I’ll graduate and become famous. Or pick up a sugar daddy, and you know how delighted I’d be.”

“And Coffee Shop Boy?”

“None of my plans have anything to do with Coffee Shop Boy.” Not unless one counted sexual fantasies as ‘plans.’ Eliot didn’t. 

“Okay,” Margo said. She gave him a piercing look and then went back to her reading. 

Eliot sighed and sort of pretended to read through his notes on _Taming of the Shrew_ , which was a masterwork of misogyny. But he and Kady and the rest of the cast were making it very, very gay. So, that was something. It probably still qualified as sexist. No, it definitely did. Either way, it was going to be superb. And Eliot was going to be sinfully decadent as the romantic lead. He imagined opening night—seeing Coffee Shop Boy, bunched up in one of the uncomfortable seats in the theater—maybe he’d see him afterwards—

 _Stop,_ he told himself. _Sugar daddy or fame. That’s the goal._

Coffee Shop Boy really was cute. But he was clearly a _good_ boy who did his homework and took his grad program seriously and could afford to buy a fuckload of tacos for his bitchy roommate. And Eliot... was not that. He was a perennial fuckup who had skated by in undergrad and only got selected for the MFA drama program at Columbia because of his good looks. Possibly a modicum of talent. But he thought it had more to do with the head of the drama department and his penchant for striking young men. He was also shit at relationships, or relationships were shit at him. After things with Mike had ended, he hadn’t had the energy to bother with anyone else. Not for more than one night, anyway.

“It wouldn’t kill you to get to know someone for real,” Margo said, looking up at him again. “Regardless of your sugar daddy ‘plans.’”

“It might kill me.” Eliot swallowed more of the coffee-swill. “And he’s probably straight.”

Margo looked up at him from whatever boring theory thing she was reading. “Oh? And when has that stopped you before? You’ve liberated plenty of guys from their toxic heterosexuality. Honestly, you’re a goddamn hero.”

“Thank you, Bambi. I’m only doing my part.” He gave her an indulgent smile. She was correct. He’d really accomplished quite a bit of that since he’d kicked Mike to the curb. It was commendable. The world needed to be a gayer place. Eliot could help make it so.

“Maybe this boy _needs_ a hero.” Margo looked at him, kicking her feet and raising an eyebrow.

“Not everyone needs to be you and Fen. I don’t need some mushy relationship just because you have one.”

“Take that back, you skanky bitch,” Margo grumbled. “We’re not—it’s not like that. She’s just… a lot less annoying than most people.”

“Relationship,” Eliot whispered.

“She’s the hottest woman in the theater department,” Margo replied, haughty.

“Kady’s in the theater department.”

“We’d be too powerful together. The world isn’t ready.”

Eliot shrugged. “Fair point. For you. But I’m not looking to meet anyone _special_. And I certainly don’t need to _get to know_ Coffee Shop Boy—”

“Given how much you talk about him—”

“What? I don’t. He’s just always flustered and looks like he might collapse into a heap of books. It’s intensely appealing. Sexually speaking.” 

“You’ve mentioned,” Margo said carefully.

“Never works out. They always get serious and want you to attend events and meet their cousin Misty and go to brunch in the Village. Boring. They’re all boring. Relationships are boring. I’m bored talking about this.”

“Have you ever met anyone’s cousin Misty?”

“No.” Eliot hadn’t—he didn’t—really get that far. He didn’t want to. Not after... all the things that he’d really rather not think about. “But he’s definitely like that. And I’m not like that.”

“Maybe he’s not—”

“We’ll never know, will we? Since I’m not giving him my number. Or getting his.” Margo opened her lovely mouth again, but he cut her off. “Listen, here’s how it’ll go. See a cute guy, exchange numbers. Write ten to fifteen tedious text messages. Either he meets me for a quick fuck, he gets too serious too fast, or he just disappears. It’s not the right time, Margo. Trust me—this would go the same way it always goes. Nowhere. I’d rather meet someone spontaneously for a one-time fling rather than getting all mixed up in something more complicated.”

“If you say so,” Margo said, laconic, still kicking her feet against the worn sofa. “Not everyone spirals into a sociopathic hurricane of fuck-up-i-tude. Very few guys are as shitty as Mi—”

“I don’t need anyone else if I have my Bambi,” Eliot added.

“I know, baby. I’m a treasure.” She smiled up at him, but she looked like she wanted to say more. 

“Now, please stop this line of inquiry and let me prepare for my Shrew. First full rehearsal tomorrow.”

“Heaven forbid anything should keep you from your work.”

“Heaven forbid indeed, darling.”

He read through Petruchio’s lines once more while Margo tapped her feet and Kady stormed in without so much as a hello for either of them, slamming her bedroom door behind her. Margo gave him a look, and he shrugged. By that time, it was five, and he’d earned himself a cocktail for all the hard work he’d been doing. He closed up the play and started to work on dinner for their weird little family, mixing himself a gin and tonic and putting on some angsty music he knew would lure Kady out of her cave. She was a slut for Billie Eilish and tabouleh. 

He could work on his lines tomorrow at The Cinnamon Roll. It was busy there around lunchtime, which was really the best thing for Eliot’s headspace when he was reading by himself. Besides, Coffee Shop Boy tended to stop by the shop right after his morning classes. Eliot could make sure to appear extra languid and tortured—like a true _artiste_ —while lazing about on one of the overstuffed chairs, carelessly flipping through Shakespeare and making notes in the margins. It was a whole aesthetic, and Eliot was excellent at pulling it off. And even if he was never, ever, in this lifetime planning on getting Coffee Shop Boy’s number or shredding his heterosexuality to bits, it wouldn’t hurt to be _noticed_. Eliot was only human, after all.


	2. Talk to me; I will go sit and weep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin and Julia watch 'Sabrina,' eat hummus, and talk about how bi they are.

~Quentin~

“Jesus fucking Christ, Julia. Your dad made that rule when we were sixteen. You need to fucking drop it. It’s not applicable anymore—”

“Yeah, well, I happen to think it’s high time we reinstated it. Alice dumped you—”

“It was mutual,” Quentin groused, tugging at the sleeves of his flannel shirt. It was worn around the buttons where he’d been worrying at it for the last five years or so. He really needed some new clothes. And not the hipster shit Julia always picked out for him. _Why_ did she keep buying him clothes?

“And James broke up with me. For shitty, nonspecific reasons," Julia said. 

Quentin shifted uncomfortably. _James._ Yeah, he wasn't digging into that along with all the rest of Julia's bullshit. All that bullshit needed to go right the fuck away. He picked at his nails. “So it’s ‘dumped’ when you’re talking about me?”

“You catch on so fast.” She grabbed a drink from their fridge and cracked it open. It was one of those gross hard seltzer things that his mom always had in her fridge. Fucking White Claws. Or whatever the Trader Joe’s version was. Julia really had a thing for Trader Joe’s. 

“You said you were ‘over’ James. Like, last night. And you’ve been processing what happened with you and Marina.” It would be _best_ if Julia were over both of them, if she could move on. James wasn't a shitty person, not exactly. Quentin had _thoughts_ on James he hadn't shared with anyone, and those were staying locked in the great Quentin Coldwater vault of bad decisions. But he wasn't right for Jules. Didn't _see_ her like she ought to be seen, all the scary-smart parts of her brain, the insane tenacity, the lightning-quick wit. Marina had seen all of that, but she'd wanted to _own it_ , not love it. He was glad, at least, Julia had quickly seen the difference. The light stalking Marina engaged in—endless strings of guilting texts, hanging around the law school library for 'research,' and _showing_ up at their brunch spot—seemed to be over. It was time, he thought, that Julia found someone who saw her in the way she ought to be seen. 

“We don’t speak her name,” Julia said. She was going for flippant, but Quentin knew that beneath still waters lay a greater story than even he knew, beyond the text messages and guilt trips and stalker-y behavior. She needed to get over all of it, see someone else. Quentin, on the other hand, did _not_ need to do that. And Jules couldn't make him.

“Wrong. I said that I’d start dating again when you did. You’ve been like Smeagol sitting up in your little window nook with your laptop. Or you’re at the coffee shop. Those are the only two places you go.”

Quentin blushed a little at the mention of The Cinnamon Roll. That’s where he kept running into Cinnamon Roll Hottie. Okay, maybe he eventually sort of took notice of what times Cinnamon Roll Hottie sauntered in since he was always wearing, like, suspenders with a matching cardigan or a gold silk waistcoat with a pocket watch and paisley tie. And he was extravagantly tall. In a hard-to-miss kind of way. With beguiling hazel eyes. _Beguiling_. He’d only gotten a good look close up that one time when they first met and he kept saying ‘fuck’ at Julia over the phone. But he took note of Cinnamon Roll Hottie’s eyes, which were like a pine-green mixed with deep golden-brown—‘hazel’ didn’t do them justice. And apart from his eyes, he was just like, lean and willowy and had big, gorgeous hands with long fingers. Quentin liked his deliberate body language and his smirky confidence, the way he winked at the barista. It suggested that he’d be absolutely, without a doubt, fucking mind-blowing in bed. And way more experienced than Quentin. And he had like a kind of _in charge_ energy, but that could just be Quentin’s projection. And it was maybe something that he kept thinking about. You know, like a lot. 

If Quentin hadn’t had his own bisexual awakening at his first debate club party in college—where he made out with a rugby player named Drake for approximately forty-five minutes before he passed out trying to give his first hand job—he’d be awakening every time he walked into the coffee shop and ran into the pinnacle of human beauty known only as ‘Cinnamon Roll Hottie.’ 

“I’m just not that exciting, Jules. This is, um, my grad school life or whatever. Alice and I broke up after drawing out our anxious, shitty, mess of a relationship for six months longer than we should have. And I don’t want to start anything new. Not for a long time. I’m fucking over, like, the whole romance thing. And it’s super fucking dumb to reinstate my dad’s dating rule since we’re in our mid-twenties—”

“Early twenties. I’m twenty-four, bitch.”

“Whatever. It’s stupid for you to deprive yourself. You’re frankly, like, a fuck of a lot better at dating than I am.”

“No, Q. I’m not. My on-again, off-again, officially off relationship with James has been fucked since high school. And when we were on that break—” Julia rolled her eyes at herself. “Marina. You know.”

Quentin sighed. He knew. He _really_ knew about that break with James. He’d seen Julia’s decision to panic-date Marina and the ensuing fallout from that clusterfuck of a three-month-long mega-mistake. Marina’s obsession, Julia’s escalating anxiety, ending in her going on three utterly disastrous, more than mildly terrifying, dates with an older guy. He got it, why she didn't want to date, didn't want to go through fucked up shit for the sake of love or companionship or whatever. But there was someone right for her; he knew it. “Ok well, if you met, like, the right person, you’d win dating trophies, Jules. I know it. You’re kind and smart and sweet. And I’m—” He gestured to all of himself.

“You’re what?”

“A total fucking mess.”

“C’mon, dude. You’re a total catch.”

Quentin rolled his eyes. He ignored her. “My dad’s old rule about me only being allowed to date if you did—”

“My parents were in on that shit, too.” Julia was still sipping at her weird cranberry alcohol seltzer. “They didn’t let me do a damn thing without you. And I’m better off for it. Maybe this is moral support. Look, it’s very fucking difficult for me to—” Julia waved her hands in a way that would look like flailing if Quentin did it, but it looked stately and weirdly cute on Julia. “—it’s just hard to take the leap again. And I want us to do this together. I need to. You need to. We both need to. Date. Go on dates. Meet people. Leave the apartment. Get laid.” She was rambling. Julia didn’t ramble.

Quentin looked at her sharply. “Is this because of that girl you met?”

“Woman, she’s a woman. Say ‘woman’.” Julia emptied a bag of pita chips into a bowl and put hummus out on their counter. “Dinner,” she said. 

Quentin shrugged and took a pita chip. “Woman. The woman you met. With the hair. Like even more hair than you have. Is this about her? Like you’re too afraid to ask her out or something so you’re putting pressure on me for… reasons? Your own amusement?”

“Not even a little bit. I barely remember her name.”

“Yeah, okay. That’s bullshit. You like her, and you should go out with her. But it’s not that simple, I guess. Can’t go out with someone you like and just be happy. You have to drag me into it.”

“I’ll be ready when you’re ready,” Julia said sweetly. “Just like always, Q. Everything is better together, right?”

“It’s your funeral, Julia. I don’t, like, subscribe to your chastity belt rule.” Quentin grabbed a handful of pita chips and started chewing them loudly, as if punctuating his very good point. He crunched at her, spilling pita chip shards down his shirt. In a real way, he knew Julia was fucking anxious. But she was gorgeous and smart and way more together than he was. She didn’t—shouldn’t—need him for this.

“It’s not a chastity belt rule. It’s solidarity, Q.” She delicately ate a chip with some hummus. Julia even ate chips like a princess. 

“Whatever the fuck ever, Jules.” 

She flipped him off. “I’m not changing my mind.”

“You’re just punishing yourself by like, linking up with me in any way.” In addition to being irritating as fuck, Jules was being ludicrous. That Kady woman wasn’t Marina. And he wasn’t going to be pulled into dating someone when he just wasn’t ready. He didn’t need any new relationship garbage in his life. It was clear to Quentin that he was shit at any romantic endeavor, and he just wanted to focus on his writing. The more miserable he was, the better it would be. Writing came from pain. Right? That’s how these things worked, clearly. He tapped his foot and shoved more chips in his mouth. 

“Q. You know that’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? I’m always breaking things. Letting people down. No one needs to be saddled with that. Especially not some girl who—”

“Woman.”

“—who wants to have a real, like, fulfilling relationship with someone. I’m not built for it.”

Julia made a noncommittal huff. She was still eating chips and hummus almost silently. It was worse than if she were eating with her mouth completely open for reasons Quentin wasn’t going to try to explain. “Maybe you’d be better at dating guys.”

 _Cinnamon Roll Hottie,_ his brain supplied unhelpfully.

Quentin coughed and spluttered, covering himself in a cascade of pita chip dust. “God, I hate these pita—” He dusted himself off angrily. “—fucking chips. Get tortilla strips next time you go to Trader Joe’s. And no more hard seltzer. Get cans of wine, at least. That lemon-elderflower seltzer is bullshit, Jules. It’s _bullshit_.”

“Um, okay.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Did I hit a nerve?”

“No, no. You didn’t. Definitely not.” Quentin cleared his throat and shoved the pita chip bowl at Julia. “And I haven’t exactly tried dating a guy for real. I mean, I would. But I’m, like, definitely not. Because that would also be an unmitigated disaster. So it’s a moot point.”

“But maybe it wouldn’t be.”

“Maybe it fucking would. We’ll never know. Because it’s not an option. And no guy or girl or anyone along any gender spectrum would benefit from being with me. And they’re not exactly lining up at the door. My dance card is, um, woefully empty. And so it shall remain.” 

“It wouldn’t be if you put yourself out there.” Julia sighed. She stepped up to Quentin and pulled him into a hug. He grumbled, but then he hugged her back, putting his head on her shoulder. At least she made him feel tall. And she _was_ trying to be helpful. She was hurting, too. Neither of them needed to be focused on this shit. He was planning on writing the next great fantasy novel and acing the shit out of Columbia’s writing MFA program, and she was in law school, doing… whatever boring shit law students do all day. 

“Yeah, well. It’s not the right time, Jules. Not for me. So don’t hitch yourself to my horse. My horse is sick, maimed, and not getting laid.”

She giggled against him, shaking softly. “God, you’d be funny if you weren’t so morose.”

“I _am_ funny.” He pulled away from Julia and kissed her on the forehead. “That’s why we’re still friends. We banter.” 

“Yeah, right. That’s it, dude. Like eight out of ten times you’re funny, you’re not trying.”

“Fuck off.”

“You know, there’s wine in the pantry.”

“We live in Manhattan. The pantry is a shelf.” But Quentin was game. Of course, it was Trader Joe’s store brand Syrah. Fine. It was four dollars, and it tasted like a good approximation of red wine. He poured the wine into two clear plastic cups and handed one to Julia before bundling himself up on the couch and pulling his knees up under him. 

“So is there any guy—”

“Jules.”

“—that you’ve got your eye on?” She sat down on the couch, delicately crossing her legs and picking up the remote. She looked over him curiously, like he was a willing participant in her agonizing line of inquiry. 

“Why is it suddenly a guy?”

She turned on the latest season of ‘The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina’ and turned to Quentin, giving him an appraising look as the credits rolled. “I’ve been to the coffee shop with you. And last week, that guy—”

“No.” He took a bracing gulp of wine. 

“—waved at you. And you _blushed_.” 

Quentin rolled his eyes. “I did not.”

“You did. And you kept looking over at him while you were reading. It was obvious as fuck.”

“Okay, so? Guys like that aren’t interested in all of this.” He gestured to himself. 

“Guys like what?”

“Okay, fucking pause this if you’re going to keep talking at me. Ambrose and Prudence have a fucking egg. And we have no idea what the fuck is in it. Jesus, Julia.”

She paused it. “Guys like what?”

He buried his head under a throw pillow, pressing his face into the couch. “You’ve seen him.”

“Yeah, and I’ve seen you. What about seeing him?”

“He’s like, exceptionally beautiful. And tall. He wears eyeliner, and it doesn’t look stupid or try-hard. It looks sexy. And he’s always dressed like nineteenth century nobility.” Jesus, his vests were way hotter than they should be. He should look fussy; instead he looked languid and confident and undeniably fucking hot. 

“He waved at you.”

“Yeah. We’re usually there at the same time of day. He recognizes me. We’ve never really… chatted. If he wanted to talk to me, he would have by now.”

“By now?”

“I mean, I’ve seen him there like ten times.”

“Maybe he’s as much of a moron as you are. You should talk to him.”

“Don’t try to push your dating agenda on me, Julia. Just ask that girl out—”

“ _Woman_. We weren’t discussing her.”

“Then we’re not discussing _him_ either. Okay. Just turn on the show and let’s get weeknight drunk. Please.”

She sighed and unpaused the show, lifting her wine in a mock toast. “I’m not dating until you are.”

“Shut the fuck up, Julia.”

Jules was his ride-or-die, no question. But she was the worst. He mentally slapped his fifteen year-old self for ever having a crush on her. He sighed and clinked his plastic glass to hers, taking a long gulp of wine and settling into Sabrina, wondering how exactly they were planning on saving the world from certain doom this season. It got repetitive after a while, didn’t it? Certain apocalypse, evil forces taking over the world, Sabrina and her friends saving it. Well, it was fine if it was a little over the top. There were actual queer characters on the show who were allowed to have full character arcs and successful relationships. It was a breath of fresh air after all the other stupid shit on TV. It was corny and campy and totally over the top. But it was their thing. 

“Eldritch terrors,” Quentin said, nodding. 

“The fuck does that mean?”

“I’m guessing they won’t really explain it, but it does sound good. Lovecraftian monsters and old gods. You know.”

Julia poured herself more wine. “I guess I can roll with that.”

“I guarantee you they won’t really explain it. But we’ll see some campy monsters and Kiernan Shipka’s bod.”

“She’s a baby. She’s like sixteen.”

“Oh my God. She’s twenty. You were saying how hot she was last week.” He threw a pillow at Julia and she ducked, saving her wine and holding the cup to her chest.

They were both laughing so hard by the time they finished the bottle that neither of them could give a proper report on what had happened in the episode they’d watched. But they put another one on, and Jules made popcorn. Because she was the best. (And also the worst.)

He vaguely wondered if he’d see Cinnamon Roll Hottie when he went to the coffee shop after his morning class the next day. He had some reading to finish, and well, he might as well do it at the shop. 

_Stop it_ , he told himself. It was an impossible crush. And Quentin was tired of impossible things.


	3. In all my lands and leases whatsoever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot contemplates the subject of Coffee Shop Boy's mouth and its relationship to pastries.

~Eliot~

Eliot was broke. Broke as fuck. And last night, his manager at the bar sat him down and told him gently, with a weirdly nice, warm hand on his arm, that he was sorry, but Eliot didn’t have a job there anymore.

Strangely, Eliot hadn’t panicked. Not yet. Tomorrow was the first full performance of _Taming of the Shrew_ , with a whole cast party at their place afterwards. So, he couldn’t panic. It was verboten. No panicking, not while prepping for the first show that he’d put any real effort into since entering the drama program. Not that he’d be able to continue in the program, or like, have a place to live without a goddamn job, but that was neither here nor there at the moment. 

Right now, he was drinking a seven-dollar latte and watching Coffee Shop Boy while he ate a _pain au chocolat_. He half-entertained the idea of saying ‘fuck it’ and telling him to come to the opening performance. After all, it would probably be Eliot’s last show before he had to move out of the city and work on a goat farm since that was all he was qualified to do. No one was handing out jobs these days, especially not to anyone with a fucking undergrad degree in drama. 

He could consider all of that later. Right now, there were more important things afoot. Like Coffee Shop Boy’s big brown eyes and his trim waist that he hid under flannel shirts and hoodies, even when autumn hadn’t really hit New York yet. Given Eliot’s astute powers of observation, he’d determined that when it was below eighty degrees, Coffee Shop Boy swaddled himself in jersey knit and drank hot coffee, legs tucked up in some awkward position in one of the shop’s overstuffed chairs. He’d also sometimes ask the barista to heat his daily pastry for thirty seconds in the microwave. Gauche, but adorable. 

And his mouth. The pout. Soft pink lips. He knew it would feel like velvet against his skin. Or wherever he decided to put it. Eliot had ideas.

Coffee Shop Boy liked pastries. Eliot had spent the better part of an hour now watching him (creepy, yes; entertaining, also yes) take apart a chocolate croissant, bit by bit, peeling off the outer dough layers and sticking them into his mouth. When he got to the interior, the chocolate got on his fingers. The boy flicked his eyes from side to side, surreptitious, and then sucked his fingers clean for longer than strictly necessary, and Eliot, pretending to go over his lines, had watched him the whole time, daydreaming a little. Just a little. Not enough to really mean anything. 

He thought not just dirty things, though Coffee Shop Boy licking his fingers gave him enough erotic fuel to last the entire week. Maybe the month. Eliot also—and he wouldn’t admit this to anyone—thought about how he was amazing at baking thanks to his mother’s tutelage (one of the good things to come out of his life in Indiana), and how he’d like to bake macarons for Coffee Shop Boy, something crumbly and light and delicate, something beautiful. Eliot would watch him eat and gently kiss the crumbs away, drawing his pouty lower lip between his teeth and pulling the boy onto his lap. He imagined the sharp intake of breath, the slightly shocked, confused expression, those eyebrows quirking up as he realized what was happening—that Eliot had him, and Eliot was going to show him, teach him just how pretty he was. He looked like he didn’t know just how sultry and sweet he looked. He was so twitchy and fumbling and tense. Eliot could imagine the sounds he might make if he took Coffee Shop Boy’s cock in his hands, got him nice and hard before taking him into his mouth, tasting him, making him release all of that tension, bit by bit. He had a nice little ass, too, round and pert. Eliot could see it whenever he bent over with his bag of books, wearing his skinny jeans that weren’t quite skinny enough for Eliot’s taste. He could go down a size. Not that Eliot _really_ had an opinion on it. But Eliot absolutely _knew_ those hips would look like heaven in his hands. He’d imagined it—God, a few times. More than a few. How he would taste and feel, the shampoo-y scent of his soft hair, the wonderful little sounds he’d make when Eliot gripped that ass and—

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. The full dress rehearsal for _Taming of the Shrew_ was in four hours, and he needed to review the script (and he was broke and drinking an exorbitantly expensive coffee he most definitely couldn’t afford). He should probably meet Kady back at home or drag Margo to the theater and make sure he was portraying his very best Petruchio. He knew every line by heart, but he needed to review the blocking. And yet, here he was, watching Coffee Shop Boy finish his pastry and drink his dirty chai latte. Guilty pleasure in the face of extreme stress. And Coffee Shop Boy was nothing if not the perfect fantasy—available for frequent viewing, so introverted that he didn’t dare speak to Eliot, and sweetly nerdy and bite-sized. A delicious trifecta for Eliot’s erotic daydreams. And night dreams. All dreams. If Eliot got to _know_ Coffee Shop Boy, all of that would disappear. And Eliot wouldn’t have access to that uplifting rush of dopamine he got from just looking at Coffee Shop Boy, simply observing his movements and imagining all the surprised sounds he could draw out of his sensual, stuttering mouth. 

He didn’t admit it. He didn’t like to think it. But he’d been crushed when he’d found the string of texts proving that Mike was unfaithful, that he’d put Eliot’s fucking _life_ at risk by fucking around on him. He’d spent the ensuing months not only heartbroken—but terrified, waiting for testing results from the clinic, crying in his room while listening to Billie Holliday. Mike had taken something from him, he knew. He hadn’t focused very hard on getting whatever that thing was back. It was a lot easier to ignore it and fuck around with cute guys who didn’t care if Eliot called them back. 

When Eliot got up to leave, Coffee Shop Boy looked up and blinked his deep-set eyes a few times in a way that told Eliot he was, in all likelihood, _not_ straight. A gratifying pink flush bloomed over Coffee Shop Boy’s cheeks, and Eliot gave him a flippant little wave, while his stomach turned over, heat rising in his chest. He tried to cultivate an air of casual disinterest, very much leaning away from the fluttery way Coffee Shop Boy made him feel. Like, ‘Oh hey I see you here like every other day, but there’s no way I could possibly have time for you due to all of my other suitors.’ Eliot really didn’t need Coffee Shop Boy getting the _wrong idea_ , didn’t need _anyone_ trying to fix the parts that Mike had broken. Eliot was mysterious and damaged, above it all. That was the look he was going for. He didn’t need any floppy-haired interlopers clogging up his anti-healing space. Eliot tried to will the boy to bury himself back inside whatever novel or paper he was reading today. Coffee Shop Boy looked like he might be about to get up or say something, so Eliot looked away and walked out of the coffee shop. He didn’t look back.


	4. If I be waspish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin attends a performance.

~Quentin~

“This play is the fucking worst, Jules. I hate _Taming of the Shrew_. It’s misogynistic garbage.” Quentin looked at the playbill.It was… fine. Orange and purple weren’t colors he’d really go for. He didn’t recognize any of the names. Why was he here again?

It had been a few weeks since Jules started trying to take him places and convince him to _date again_. In that time, he’d really only thought about Cinnamon Roll Hottie and his extraordinarily long legs. Sue him; he was only human. You see someone who looks like that and you can’t get them off your mind. And it didn’t help anything that he seemed to be at the coffee shop at the same time as Quentin. Like, um. Always. 

But he was a good sport. And he supported getting Julia out of the fucking house and off of his fucking case. So here he was at the fucking Shrew.

“Shut up, dude,” Julia whispered. “We’re in the actual lobby in a sea of people who are here to enjoy themselves. They don’t need your feminist-lit-nerd thing right now.”

“Don’t they?” Quentin rolled his eyes and crossed his arms defensively across his chest. 

“We both needed to get out of the house. And get some culture. Do something other than watch Sabrina and drink.”

“But watching Sabrina and drinking is my, um, hobby,” Quentin said, laughing a little. “It’s your hobby, too.”

“Tonight we can watch this play—and not just sit on our asses in front of the TV—and then we can drink at the cast party. With, you know, other people.” She linked her arm through Quentin’s, smiling up at him a little mischievously. “And you might meet someone.”

Quentin thought he might strain his eyes from rolling them so fucking hard at everything Julia said these days. Julia hadn’t let up on the dating garbage, trying to convince Quentin at every turn to ‘get back out there.’ She’d been spending plenty of time with her new secret friend—Katie, or Kady, maybe, because it wasn’t spelled like a normal-person version of Katie. She was involved with the play and lived in the house where the party was taking place. That was the real reason they’d left their cozy little apartment and paused Sabrina in the middle of the sixth episode. It was so Jules could _not date_ this woman she was always talking about. Why couldn’t she just get her shit together and leave Quentin out of it? She really didn’t need to punish him for being introverted. Or curmudgeonly. Or just generally bitter. And maybe high maintenance and slightly depressed. Whatever. He just didn’t need to be a fucking part of it, okay? If she was doing well enough to see Kady, she needed to just fucking go for it. Jump off the bridge by herself. Quentin didn’t need to swan dive with her.

The lights above the doors to the theater blinked once, then twice. 

“Gotta go get to our seats!” Julia shuffled Quentin through the crowd. When Quentin got to the door, he took another look at the poster, raising an eyebrow. He had a brief flash of memory. Hazel eyes and a smirk. Almond milk latte. Hadn’t Cinnamon Roll Hottie been carrying around a beat up copy of _Taming of the Shrew_ for weeks now? It was creepy that Quentin knew that, but he hadn’t told anyone about his creepiness, so it wasn’t actually creepy. He wasn't being creepy _on purpose_. But oh— _fuck_ —if he was in this play, he’d be at the cast party. Quentin’s stomach flipped, and he looked behind him, vaguely wondering if there was a way for him to escape halfway through the play without Julia getting suspicious. 

“Um, I—um.” Quentin looked at Julia helplessly, his eyebrows knitted. 

“What’s wrong?” She looked up at him, all big-eyed and earnest. “Q, what’s up? Are you okay?”

“I—uh. Nothing.” He handed his ticket to the usher and followed Julia, hands shoved in his pockets and suddenly all too aware that he was wearing his faded red and blue flannel shirt instead of something slightly more flattering. If he was even right about Cinnamon Roll Hottie. He probably wasn’t. Coincidences happened every day. 

When he got to his seat, smack dab in the middle of the third row, he tucked his feet up beneath him and buried his nose in the program, looking over all the names of the cast and crew to see if he could spot—what? What was he looking for? He didn’t even know Cinnamon Roll’s name. His pulse picked up, a nagging anxiety forming somewhere in the pit of his chest. He’d _have_ to talk to Cinnamon Roll Hottie if he saw him at the cast party, wouldn’t he? He couldn’t just nod and wave like a nervous idiot. And then Julia—oh God. She’d be like a hawk eyeing a baby squirrel. “I think I—um—maybe—”

“Spit it out,” Julia said. “Why are you being weird? Why is your face weird? Why are you sitting weird?”

“Because—ah—I dunno if it’s—him or—”

The lights went down, and the theater hushed. 

“It’s just that—” Quentin whispered. 

Julia shushed him, putting a finger to his lips. Why was she so annoying? Why had he chosen to live with her in a city with literally millions of people? He rolled his eyes and sighed—really for no good reason at all since she wasn’t aware of his current episode of inner-socially-anxious-bisexual-disaster-nerd panic. She was just trying to be helpful. He was the one having an almost-meltdown about a guy who was probably—almost certainly—not a member of the cast.

The curtains lifted, and well, neither of the first two characters were Cinnamon Roll Hottie. Someone much shorter and blonder was playing Tranio, and someone lanky and tall—but not Coffee Shop Hottie—was playing Lucentio. Slowly, the beginning of the play unfolded, and Quentin laughed in spite of himself at the young man playing the Katherine character, listed as ‘Kit’ in the program. He pulled off the whole too-proud-for-love thing—and hey, Quentin could relate to that. Plus, he was cute. This was fine. Everything was totally _fine_. He was paying attention. It was… nice. This was a good idea for making this play more palatable.

“You said you hated this play,” Julia whispered to him. 

He kicked at her ankle. “Shh, we’re not supposed to talk, remember?” 

The stage went dark and turned beneath to reveal the new setting for act two. Quentin’s heart fluttered wildly. He remembered now—vividly—watching Cinnamon Roll Hottie read through this play a dozen times, making notes and tapping his pencil against the pages. _And if he were cast as anyone, he’d be—_

The lights went up.

“Verona, for a while I take my leave to see my friends in Padua—but of all, my best beloved and approved friend, Hortensio.” 

_—the lead. Petruchio. Well, fuck._

A faint ringing began in Quentin’s ears as Cinnamon Roll Hottie began his opening dialogue with Hortensio about literally _buying_ himself a compliant wife—er—husband. Quentin gulped. Lean and tall, gracefully confident, his rich voice projecting across the stage and into the audience, he was unmistakable. Those dark curls fell carelessly over his forehead; his cheekbones and jawline and that unfairly attractive cleft chin cut a striking, regal presence. The costume they had him in would have looked like a brocade couch on anyone else. On him, all trim waist and miles of leg, it looked like couture. He radiated sensual energy as he walked across the stage, pulling off his character’s devious charm with practiced ease, smile wide and scheming, eyes lit from within with frenetic energy. He beamed and pranced and delivered each line like a playful benediction. He sparkled. Literally. He had on gold eye makeup to match the gold brocade couch he was wearing.

If Quentin had any remaining doubts about his sexuality, this, he thought, would really clear things up. If the several hundred thousand times he’d pined over Cinnamon Roll Hottie at the coffee shop hadn’t done it, this would.

Julia hit him on the arm, gasping audibly. “Oh my God, Q!” The woman in front of them turned to glare at her. Julia lowered her voice. “That’s him, isn’t it?”

“Who?” Quentin tried for a puzzled tone.

“Your guy from the—”

“No one is ‘my guy,’ Jules.” 

The woman turned around again. “Shh!”

“I know he is an irksome brawling scold. If that be all, masters, I hear no harm.” Cinnamon Roll Hottie, laughing and looking out at the audience, made his way to the head of the stage. Quentin was wrong earlier. This was a terrible fucking play, and this was a terrible way to go about making it better. Petruchio was a garbage character with garbage lines, and here he was, insulting the hapless Kit, who didn’t want anything to do with love or romance. It was atrocious. And it was turning Quentin _on_ , and he didn’t know what the fuck to do with that.

Quentin took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly and attempting to calm himself. Holy fuck; he was so, so… _tall_. Quentin tracked him across the stage, a blush rising over his cheeks as Quentin watched his mouth, the long lines of his body, his slim waist, those _curls_. A thrill prickled along his spine. He could feel Julia’s eyes on him in the dim light of the theater. She pinched him just above the elbow.

“Ow! What the fuck! Julia!” 

The disgruntled woman turned around again, her eyes deadly. “My daughter is in this play—have a little respect! Fucking millennials.” She turned back around, huffing. Julia started to giggle, and Quentin bit down a laugh as his eyes followed Petruchio across the stage. 

After a period of time where Quentin thought they might have to leave due to their barely concealed laughter, they both settled in, watching the play. Correction: Julia was watching the play. Quentin was watching his walking sex fantasy. By the time intermission came along, Quentin had bitten his lip so much that he’d made it hot and swollen. He’d tried to put the whole concept of Cinnamon Roll Hottie out of his brain, but instead, he was imagining giving him a lengthy, luxurious blow job, while he was wearing his kingly brocade suit and reciting Shakespeare. _And that’s how new kinks are born,_ Quentin thought. _Fuck._

The lights came up for intermission, but Quentin was still staring at the stage, his mind conjuring up new and thrilling images around Cinnamon Roll Hottie, the white and gold wrap shirt he was wearing in scene four, and the skintight cling of the deep plum leather leggings he wore beneath. There was a lovely dark field of chest hair beneath the wrap shirt, and Quentin wondered how it might be to slip his hands beneath the nearly sheer fabric and run his fingers over that soft hair, to put his mouth right at the hollow of his glorious neck. God bless the director for not making Cinnamon Roll Hottie wax his chest. He pushed his hair back from his face and drew his knees up, resting his chin between them. 

“You’re in Quentin Coldwater fetal pose,” Julia whispered as people began to rise from their seats around them.

“I’m not,” he said. He definitely was.

“Don’t you want to know what his name is?”

“No.” _Yes._

He could hear Julia flipping through the program beside him as the audience moved in waves toward the lobby and the bathroom. He glanced over at her and then back at the stage, pressing his teeth into the denim of his jeans. He wished he were wearing his nicer jeans, the ones that fit better. But it didn’t matter since he _wasn’t_ going to the cast party. 

“Eliot Waugh,” Julia said. “That’s his name. I think he lives with Kady—”

“How did you, uh, not tell me that?” 

“Dude. I haven’t been over there. All I remember about this guy is that he’s tall and hot and gets coffee on the same schedule that you do. How would I know he lives with Kady? I know that some guy named Eliot lives with Kady. I didn’t know he was _your_ guy.”

“He’s not my guy,” Quentin hissed.

“Okay,” Julia said. “Clearly not.”

“You should’ve, I don’t know—warned me—” Quentin pressed back his hair angrily.

Julia made a frustrated noise. “Warn you how? About what?” 

“I don’t know. Obviously I can’t go to this party, or whatever. Why is her name Kady? Why isn’t it Katie? Did her parents just want to be hip?”

“Um. Let’s backtrack. We’re going to the party. Kady invited me, and we’re going. It’s not up for discussion.” 

“Julia, I can’t—”

“And why the fuck can’t you?”

“I’m. Um. I can’t. I wave at him. And he probably thinks I think he’s hot—”

“You do.”

“And I’m not sure I can—like, exist. In the same room as—as—as other people. If he’s there.”

She put a hand on Quentin’s arm, soothing. “There’s going to be alcohol. It’ll be fine. If you’re uncomfortable, you can dip out early. No hard feelings.”

“While you _don’t date_ Kady?”

She gave him a fierce look. “Um, because I’m not currently dating. I’m recovering from the trauma of losing my previous relationship. And I’m currently done with my residence in relationship-ville. Shit got super fucked up. I’m taking it slow. And that’s that. If you get out there, I might give it a go. I mean, I will give it a go. And Kady is my friend—”

“Who you think is ‘sexy’ and ‘hilarious’ and ‘badass’.”

“She’s all of those things. Best bitches, you know.”

“Ooo-kay.” Quentin shrugged. “Sounds like a crush. Like you should be asking her to spend the day studying and then, like, make out under the streetlights in the rain. Or you know. Dating stuff.”

“Okay, Audrey Hepburn, let’s dial back that fantasy a little. Sounds like you’re projecting when you’ve got Guyliner magically appearing _every_ time you have coffee. Seems like you’re the one thinking _romantical thoughts._ ”

“You are so incredibly corny.”

Julia waggled her eyebrow. “Admit it.” She poked him.

The lights flickered and went low again. “I hate you,” Quentin whispered to Julia. “You’re the hugest dork.”

She covered her mouth to stifle her laughter. She leaned her head on his shoulder and whispered. “Thank you. I’m just totally here for this crush. Don’t sleep on it, Q.”

Quentin grumbled into his folded up knees. She was one to fucking talk.

After that, everything slowly faded into the background. All the audience members, all the cell phone lights clicking on and off, all the mumbling and the people still sliding back and forth to get to their seats. Petruchio—Eliot, fuck that was even a hot _name_ —had stepped back onto stage, and Quentin had immediately gone to that visceral place in his brain. The little piece of his brain that wanted to get his hands all _over_ Eliot Waugh, coffee shop hottie, Shakespearean actor, the only man alive to make brocade look sexy as fuck. Quentin melted into his seat, turning from a human being into an anxious puddle by the time the curtains closed. When the cast came out together, Eliot stood in the middle and came forward to receive three—no _four_ —bouquets of flowers from four different guys. 

Quentin sank down into his seat, his gut twisting with an unfamiliar emotion. On the way out of the theater, he realized what it was. He was jealous. _Fuck._

He was definitely going home.

~~***~~

“You’re definitely not going home. You can’t abandon me in the middle of New York.”

“You’ve lived in Manhattan for five years, going on six, Jules. You know the city better than I do. I’m going home. Seriously, I don’t want—” 

Julia whacked him in the shoulder. “When’s the last time you went out anywhere?”

“I went to, um, class yesterday,” Quentin said. He cut his eyes at Julia.

“God, you know that’s not what I mean. You haven’t been anywhere for at least the past month. At least. You need to put yourself out there—”

“I said I’m not dating.”

“I didn’t say dating. Just not turning into a hermit.”

“Jesus Christ. Just because I don’t want to go to a cast party where I don’t know anyone—”

“You know me. And you know—” She leaned in close and whispered in his ear. “—Eliot.”

“I don’t know him,” Quentin whispered back, looking back over his shoulder like Eliot might appear behind them, in a shower of bouquets and brocade.

“Fine. Whatever. Come for an hour. Like I said, you can dip anytime. Just humor me. You can avoid Guyliner all you want. Lurk in a corner. Do some card tricks. You’re a big hit at parties.”

“I’m literally, like, the opposite of a big hit anywhere.”

“You’re a big hit with me,” she said, looking up at him with her big Julia eyes. That was how she did it, every time. Even if the crush was ancient history, she got him _every single time_ with the quasi-ingenue, quasi-up-to-something act. Give Quentin a compliment, and he was mush. That barely qualified as a compliment; he must have been getting desperate. She was pulling him toward the subway station.

“God. Fine.” Quentin rolled his eyes and groaned. 

“We’re stopping by a bar on the way to Kady’s house, and we’re doing shots. Kady says there’s a place around the corner from her townhouse. We’ll do it together. For courage,” Julia said, taking Quentin’s arm.

“Jesus Christ,” he said.

He grumbled the whole way there, but when Julia dragged him inside the bar, they each did three shots of tequila. It was a terrible idea—but pretty on brand for Julia.

By the time they made it to the little townhouse, set in a weird little nook in Mott Haven, they were both a bit buzzed, trading a cigarette back and forth between them and arguing about whether the Queer Grad Student Union prom was heteronormative. (Quentin said it was. Julia said it definitely wasn’t.) They were still shouting at each other when Julia knocked on the door. 

Maybe Eliot wasn’t home, Quentin half-thought as they waited. That would be the best case scenario here. 

Julia knocked, looking back at Quentin. “We’re all good. We’re going to drink more when we get inside. For courage.”

“And maybe, he’s not even—”

A woman opened the door, a bit taller than Julia, with shining, long brown hair, full lips stained dark red, and a look that conveyed skepticism and towering condescension. “And who are you supposed to be?”

“I’m Kady’s friend, Julia. This is my friend, Quentin.” 

“Quentin?” She screwed her face up when she said it, like it was distasteful. 

“Um, yeah. I’m friends with Julia,” he repeated, brainlessly. 

“You’re not her date, though? Cuz Kady’s not looking for a woman who’s tied down. Especially not one tied down to a guy.” 

Quentin gulped. “Nope. No. It’s not like that.”

“Okay, well. Julia, you can come in. Quentin, you can go home. The subway station is like two, three blocks, east or west. Not sure. Look it up.” She made a motion to take Julia’s hand and lead her inside. 

Quentin’s insides froze. He’d spent the last hour working himself up to actually come to this thing. His mouth fell open. 

A tall figure walked up behind the woman. “Don’t scare the poor children. Let them in. You’re not even in the theater program, Bambi. Though I do adore when you play bouncer.”

A chill ran down Quentin’s spine. That voice. The figure moved into the porch light and caught sight of Quentin. For a moment his eyes went wide, his face the slightest bit pale beneath the sparkle of gold over his cheeks and lining his eyes. He was wearing a matching gold-hued vest with a floral pattern over a deep green shirt, with a paisley cravat hanging loosely around his neck. Not that Quentin made note of those things. He didn’t, usually. It was just—well. His dumb long body and his stupid pretty eyelashes and green-gold hued fucking lovely eyes meshed with his ludicrously overdone outfit almost sent Quentin into a fit of rage. That was what.

“We’re um. Hi,” he said, raising his hand and waving a little at Eliot. Why was Quentin wearing a flannel shirt. _Why_?

“Um, hey,” he said, voice drawn out, pausing and staring at Quentin before his face snapped back into nonchalance. “Welcome, welcome. You both come on in. I’m mixing drinks. And I make the most divine drinks.”

“His drinks are a fucking gift, bitches. You best appreciate the master at work,” the woman said. “Or you’re out. In the cold. We’ll call the mafioso who runs this block. I got connections.”

“That’s Margo. She won’t bite.” He regarded Quentin coolly, like he was talking to the cashier at The Cinnamon Roll—the not-cute one. Quentin’s stomach dropped. “Maybe she will. Depends on the day. If you want her to, she definitely will.”

Margo rolled her eyes. “I guess they can _both_ come in.” She waltzed off toward their makeshift bar at the back of the living room, shouting at someone named Todd to ‘get her a fucking bag of Cheetos.’

Quentin flicked his eyes toward Julia as Eliot turned and gestured for them to follow him. She was grinning at him, her eyes dancing. “He’s so cute,” she mouthed. Quentin reached out and poked her in the side, making her stumble and start giggling.

Quentin wouldn’t have been able to manage walking into the townhouse ( _danger danger danger_ ) without the tequila. And it seemed, given Eliot’s demeanor, that he wasn’t entirely thrilled with Quentin’s presence—or maybe, he just didn’t _care_. He did recognize him, didn’t he? It seemed like he did. Maybe he did, but it was like, ‘Hey, that’s a guy I’ve seen at the coffee shop,’ and not like, anything else other than that. Not like ‘Oh, there’s the _cute_ guy I, like, greet at the coffee shop on a semi-regular basis.’ Shit. Not that Quentin cared. He wasn’t interested in Cinnamon Roll Hottie— _Eliot_ —like that. 

Eliot led them through the living room, which was tiny and crowded, filled with cast and crew members, some of whom Quentin recognized. “This is our fabulous bohobo-chic couch. Just don’t look at it with a black light. Kitchen is that way—” He pointed to another crowded room, drinks and food set along the countertops. “—and bathrooms are by the stairs. Bedrooms are upstairs. Don’t go up there if there’s anything you don’t want to see. Fen gets feisty after hours. And the bar is right here. What can I get for you?” Eliot turned, beaming at both of them. He looked ethereal in the half-light, shadows playing over his features, and Quentin gulped.

_I burn, I pine, I perish—_

“I. Um. Like a. Um.” Quentin flushed under Eliot’s gaze. 

“Hm, okay. Indecisive. In the face of many options, I’ll decide for you.” He turned to Julia. “What flavor profile strikes your fancy?”

“Um. What?” Quentin’s ears were hot. The room was hot. His ratty flannel shirt suddenly hung on his limbs like a suit of lead. And what in the fuck was a _flavor profile?_

“He likes citrus. And fizzy drinks. A little sweet,” Julia supplied. She still had her arm linked with Quentin’s, and she knew what a flavor profile was. Thank God for that. He was about to lose his shit in front of this guy, even with three shots of tequila in his system.

“I’m um—” He looked up at Eliot, who held his gaze, expression unreadable. “Yeah.” She wasn’t wrong. Quentin was sure he was beet-red now. He should have asked for like, three fingers of whiskey. Or bourbon. Or whatever the fuck alcohol would make him look like something other than a teenager asking for a Zima at a pool party.

_I’ll have a red Solo cup full of Arbor Mist, thanks. I’ll take it to the kids’ table._

“Perfect. And you—” He pointed at Julia. “Let me guess. You like something just a bit tangy and tropical.”

“Works for me,” Julia said, still wearing that sort of crazed-looking grin and cutting her eyes at Quentin. “I’m fine with anything. I’m Julia, by the way.”

“Eliot,” he said, pouring different mixers and liqueurs that Quentin didn’t recognize. He kept watching Eliot’s hands—he couldn’t remove his gaze, couldn’t pay attention to anything else happening in the room. Not when those long fingers worked skillfully, deftly. When he looked up, he caught Quentin watching his hands. “And you are?”

Quentin slowly moved his eyes up to meet Eliot’s. “Quentin.”

“Here you go, Quentin,” Eliot said, putting a glass in Quentin’s hand. One of his fingers brushed against Quentin’s, and electricity buzzed through his body, pooling warm in the pit of his stomach. 

He swallowed against a lump in his throat. “Um. Thanks. It’s um. I don’t recognize—”

Eliot _winked_ at him. “That’s a Moscow Mule with blackberry and elderflower liqueur.”

Quentin took a sip, unable to look away from Eliot. He had the nicest cheekbones. “Holy shit—um. That’s great.” He smiled, and for a second, the corners of Eliot’s mouth lifted in a little smile, a genuine smile, he thought. Like he was pleased. 

“Wonderful.” He went back to work, not looking up. “Julia, you’re dating Kady.” It wasn’t a question. 

“I’m not dating anyone,” Julia replied quickly. “I don’t date. I’m not dating.” 

“Oh?” He shrugged a little, apparently still working on Julia’s drink. Quentin sipped at his drink, the sweet and sour rolling over his tongue, he watched Eliot’s hands. Long fingers, working magic. Sure, swift. Confident. Quentin shivered.

“What makes you say that?” Julia said, squeaking a little. 

Quentin huffed, breathing a little laugh through his nose. Eliot smiled, like he was suppressing the desire to laugh, but he kept working. He started juicing a grapefruit—a _grapefruit_ —at a grad school cast party where most everyone was drinking Michelob Ultra. 

“Oh, nothing,” Eliot said mildly. “She just keeps talking about a Julia. Maybe you’re not the right Julia. I don’t know what she’s doing with her time.” He handed Julia a drink in a tall glass. Different from Quentin’s glass—like a specific-to-the-drink kind of glass. “This is a sage and brown sugar Paloma. The tequila I used is of a middling quality, but the grapefruit cures all manner of ills.”

“So she’s talked about me?” Julia took a gulp of her cocktail.

Eliot raised an eyebrow, a little gleeful. “Slow down. Take your time. She’s meant to be savored.” 

“This drink is… really, really delicious,” Julia said, very sincere. “Like, wow, my dude. Good choice.” She paused, and Quentin winced. She couldn’t leave well enough alone. That was, like, a key Julia characteristic. “Kady mentioned me?”

“Oh, yes. If you’re Julia. She’s mentioned someone named Julia quite a few times. I haven’t fully paid attention to what she was saying since she’s all hair and rage most of the time, so I tend to tune out a lot.” 

Quentin bit down on a smile. He let go of Julia’s arm and took the coin out of his pocket that he kept with him, fidgeting with it and rolling it over his knuckles as he sipped at his drink, savoring the fizzy sweetness and sinking back into himself, tuning everyone else out. When he looked up, Julia was talking with a very pretty woman with long, dark, super-big and wavy hair. 

“Q, this is Kady,” Julia said. “She works with the theater department. She helped direct the play.”

“Oh, um, wow. It was, um, the best version of _Taming of the Shrew_ that I’ve seen. Like ever.” Quentin’s mouth was dry. He was supposed to say normal human things. He fidgeted with the coin and took a long sip of his drink. Some of it spilled on his shirt. “Fuck. I mean. It’s nice to meet you. It’s Quentin. Quentin.” 

“Charmed,” Kady said. It was a normal thing to say, but she said it in a way that made Quentin a little bit afraid. “I’m glad we could rock your world.” She winked at him. He felt a little bit like he should apologize to her, but he didn’t know what for.

He chatted with Kady and Julia, too nervous to really get a read on her, and trying not to look over at Eliot, whose presence he could feel like an itch beneath his skin. He could almost feel Eliot watching him, the way he did sometimes when he was at the coffee shop. Or, well. Quentin indulged himself in the _idea_ that Eliot could be watching him. It seemed fairly fucking unreal that someone that looked like Eliot would spare a glance for someone like Quentin—boring and nerdy and socially maladjusted and chronically anxious and depressed. It didn’t fit Eliot’s aesthetic, Quentin thought. And ‘aesthetic’ was probably a word Eliot used a lot, as cultivated as his whole appearance and personality seemed to be. After Julia and Kady wandered off (to _not_ hook up, he guessed), Quentin glanced at Eliot, who was talking to the cute guy who’d played Kit. Much cuter than Quentin.

Quentin slipped away, all too aware that he’d act like a fool if he stayed around Eliot for too long. He grabbed the crumpled pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and slipped out onto the balcony, looking out into the courtyard and sipping at his drink, thinking maybe he’d talk to Eliot later, and that maybe he shouldn’t, but maybe he would because the amount of alcohol in his system was really moving towards the perfect amount. 

He didn’t know if Eliot _saw_ him the same way he saw Eliot. He kind of hoped not. He wasn’t dating, not while he was finishing his master’s degree. And he wasn’t looking for anything else in that vein, either. Eliot looked like the one-and-done type, and Quentin was, well. He wasn’t that. He’d been down that road with… a few people. Most recently, a weekend-long slutty hookup frenzy had ended a close friendship for Quentin, right on the heels of his breakup with Alice. And all of that—the hookup, the break up—had proven to Quentin that he was eminently undateable. Unfuckable. Un-everything-able.

As tempting as it was, Quentin knew himself too well to go down that road. He wasn’t looking to define himself with any relationship; that just wasn’t him. And he sure as fuck wasn’t looking to get used and dumped. The using part would probably be a fuck of a lot of fun. Dangerous. Reckless. Stupid. 

But it didn’t hurt to just _talk_ to someone, did it? If Eliot spoke to him, he wouldn't flee. 

_Having nothing; nothing can he lose_. 

Wrong play. Right sentiment.


	5. And where two raging fires meet together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margo meddles. Eliot makes a move.

Eliot was prepared for many things to happen at the cast party—hooking up with the cute blond who played Kit (John? Jason? Eliot just called him ‘Kit,” so that was his name now), reaching the perfect level of tipsiness while serving custom cocktails to his favorite people (and Kady), maybe rolling a joint with Margo on the balcony, enjoying the last vestiges of summer as the season began to fade. It might, after all, be his last hurrah before failing to pay next semester’s tuition and his astronomical rent fee and having to work on a goat farm in upstate New York forever (definitely a goat farm). Might as well go out in style. 

He just wasn’t prepared for Coffee Shop Boy. Said boy—Quentin, whose name was even dorky-cute—was sitting on their couch performing card tricks for a few of the theater crew girls while engaging Josh Hoberman in a in-depth discussion about some person named Brandon Sanderson and whether he would finish the Game of Thrones books. Penny, Kady’s surly ex, dramatically rolled his eyes and scoffed, but he kept not-so-secretly staring at Quentin’s hands. Quentin didn’t seem to be aware that at least one of the group of girls was angling to fuck him, and Penny probably wouldn’t mind either. He also seemed to have no clue that his man-bun had come half-undone and was spilling silky, dark-honey-brown hair over one shoulder. One of the crew girls leaned in and brushed it back over his shoulder. He smiled at her, dimpling, and told her to ‘pick a card.’ He shuffled the cards in a showy way, hands deft and precise, and performed a sleight of hand trick that Eliot couldn’t quite follow, producing the chosen card from Josh’s shirt pocket to the delighted girls, who now all looked like they were going to jump on his dick. Quentin didn’t know it, it fucking seemed, but he’d fallen into his niche. Theater crew nerds went feral over outside nerds. New blood and all that. Not that Eliot cared. 

_But he’s supposed to be mine._

_Stop it_ , he told himself sternly. Irrational. Silly, silly thoughts. He was broke. He was shit at relationships. And Quentin had the air of someone who deserved someone who was _good_ at relationships.

He watched as Quentin finished his drink and smiled, creases at the corners of his eyes, his dimples making another showing. He turned away, back to the sloe gin fizz he was supposed to be making for Margo. His heart wasn’t in the whole custom cocktail thing tonight, not since Quentin had disappeared from his sight and then reappeared fifteen minutes later in a circle of girls.

_Focus on the drink. Just the drink. Then, you’ll be fucking normal and not mooning over some admittedly adorable boy._

He reached down to the cooler beneath his makeshift bar. Chilled fruit was his favorite trade secret. Everyone liked a perfectly cold drink, and he felt it speeded the process to keep his citrus on ice. Maybe it wasn’t totally necessary, but it was important to have an elegant process. He put two lemons on the cutting board and sliced them lengthwise, sensing a presence to his right.

“Bambi, hold onto your tits, coming up in a sec—”

“Um—I—um.” 

He looked over to see Quentin, who was now apparently tipsy enough to maintain eye contact. He had the loveliest eyes, deep and soulful and more than a little bit fierce. Eliot shook off the moony expression he probably had on his face. No time for getting all bent out of shape over Coffee Shop Boy. He was Eliot Waugh—calm, cool, collected. Not one to dwell in a boy’s eyes and think about living there forever. “What can I do for you?” 

“I—uh. I really liked that, um, drink you made for me. If I could—have another one?” He licked his lips absentmindedly. Full, pink lips, little darting tongue and—

“Absolutely,” he said. He could have left it at that, but since his mouth was a traitorous bitch, he kept fucking talking. “You go to the Cinnamon Roll to work, right? I think I’ve seen you there a few times.” 

_Bold, shameless lies. Keep it together, Eliot._

“Oh. Yeah. I, um. Recognized you when you—you came out on stage.” Quentin licked his lips _again_ because he obviously wanted to kill Eliot. 

Eliot immediately abandoned Bambi’s lemons, grabbing a lime and a handful of blackberries to muddle for Quentin’s drink. So sue him. A cute boy wanted a drink, and he lived to serve. It had nothing to do with this particular boy’s sexy, nerdy kryptonite quality that threatened to drive Eliot insane. “So I did well making you a custom drink?”

“Yeah, yeah, uh. It was perfect. I get a little nervous around like, a lot of people I don’t know. I needed a good cocktail.” Jesus, now Quentin’s eyes were darting back and forth, embarrassed, like he’d said something dirty. Maybe he was thinking something dirty, which was—well. That was a thing Eliot didn’t mind considering. 

_Stop it. No cute nerds._

Eliot muddled the blackberries and lime, then added a healthy dose of vodka and elderflower liqueur. “Glad to assist,” he said, mixing in crushed ice and presenting the cup to Quentin. He let his hand linger next to Quentin’s for just a moment, just barely touching. Sparks like lightning. But that didn’t mean anything. It had… just been too long. That was all.

He expected Quentin to turn back to the girls who were now chatting with Josh about something nerdy. One of them kept looking back at Quentin. But Quentin just kept standing there, looking at Eliot like he was a lost puppy. He sipped at his drink. “This is just. Like. So good. Really.” His hair was still a little mussed, and Eliot found himself wondering what his bed head looked like in the mornings, with hair that long and thick and shiny. He imagined running his fingers through it, what it might feel like if Eliot kissed him and grabbed a good handful…

“You were so, um, dynamic as Petruchio. I feel like that’s not a, a really easy part to pull off. Like a charming dick.” 

“Goes along with my untouchable bad boy persona and my storied past.” Eliot smirked, slowly squeezing the lemon juice for Margo’s drink. “And I can assure you my dick is very charming.” The words were out before Eliot could stop himself. He quickly took a sip of his own drink. That was the kind of line he pulled on the dime-a-dozen boys he usually sought out on weekends, the ones who never cared about staying over. The ones he didn’t care about kicking out in the morning. _Danger_ , Eliot warned himself. But his hindbrain was guiding him, buoyed by alcohol and the sounds of the party and the deep, inner part of him that wanted to investigate what the sounds he could get this boy to make.

Quentin was blushing furiously now and laughed a little nervously, clearing his throat. He set his drink down and picked it back up like he wasn’t sure what to do with it now that he had the image of Eliot’s dick in his head. 

“Well—I—uh—um. I think.” Quentin had lost the ability to speak. It was utterly charming, and it made Eliot want to make a thousand more dick jokes just to see him splutter and get all nervous and red. “Um. I think you really—really did a great job. I don’t love that play—”

Eliot snorted. “So you’re uncultured?” He gently squeezed the lemon juice for Margo’s drink. “Don’t like Shakespeare?”

“I—um—shit—”

“I’m just teasing. No one likes _The Taming of the Shrew_. Well, I suppose the drama program liked it enough to do it. And we made it gay, so that solves all manner of ills.”

Quentin smiled, and _oh_ —dimples. “It definitely, um. It was really, actually like, quite funny? You all made for—really, I mean—like a great production.” Jesus, how did he ever get a full sentence out? It was like his brain short-circuited every time he tried to speak. And why was this making him _more_ attractive? It was completely counterintuitive. “I think you were the best part.” 

“Oh yeah?” Eliot’s stomach dropped to the floor. He could barely hold himself together—the dimples and the shiny curtain of hair, the tattered jeans and the flannel shirt. The _oh-you-made-me-blush-Eliot_ expression, the way Quentin’s eyes lingered on Eliot’s mouth and quickly darted over Eliot’s body. Maybe he could break his little no-nerd, no-dating, Eliot-is-poor, Eliot-is-broken policy just to see where things went. He knew that if he tried, even a little, Quentin would be easy to take to bed. Eliot could just take him out to the balcony for a smoke, and he could lean in for a kiss. Quentin would kiss him, clumsy and tender, and he’d probably come in his Levis when Eliot touched his dick. 

“Yeah. It was a—um—your performance was—”

“Fucking genius. Is that what you were going for?” Margo had appeared next to Quentin. 

_Shit. Well. This was an unfortunate development for Eliot’s sanity._

Margo looked Quentin up and down, then flicked at the collar of his flannel shirt. “You’re late with that drink, El. I’ve had to listen to Todd talk about stage lighting for the past ten minutes.”

“How’d you slip away from that one?” Eliot made a show of squeezing the lemon juice for Margo’s drink, carefully not looking at Quentin.

“I told him I had to go rub one out.” She smirked. “He told me he hoped I’d have a ‘nice time’.”

“Todd shouldn’t even be privy to the idea of you rubbing one out, Bambi,” he said. He poured the nice gin—the kind only Margo got to have—and mixed it with the lemon juice and club soda, making sure to get a bit of lemon pulp in the drink, just the way she liked it. 

“Thought I’d give him a little thrill.” 

Quentin watched the whole exchange, his eyes wide, like he’d stepped in on someone changing clothes and found himself unable to look away. “I’m um—I’ll um—”

“Don’t be silly. Any friend of Eliot’s is a friend of mine. Actually, he should have come to me immediately for a stamp of approval.” She flicked at Quentin’s collar again, clearly delighting in watching him squirm. 

Eliot smiled, keeping his expression mild. Bambi wasn’t supposed to know who Coffee Shop Boy was, not the real, actual Coffee Shop Boy. And she wouldn’t. She’d get her drink. Maybe they’d chat. She’d be hilarious and perfect, and then she’d vanish and leave Eliot to his erotic thoughts about seducing an innocent nerd with a very clear oral fixation that Eliot needed to mentally explore without Bambi trying to sabotage his _perfectly innocent_ conversation. Or his potential hookup sans mention of _moving on from Mike; I know you’re a secret serial monogamist, Eliot_.“Oh, we don’t know each other a bit. I was just getting Quentin here a drink.” 

“Well. We see each other at the coffee shop. I mean. Frequently. Or sort of frequently? We haven’t, um. I mean. I’m not terribly—outgoing?”

_Shit._

“Ooooh,” Margo said, drawing out the long ‘o.’ “So, this is him, huh? He’s not that cute.”

Eliot sighed and gave a nonchalant shrug like it was _no big deal_ that he’d mentioned seeing him at The Cinnamon Roll. And Eliot might have said he was cute. If he neither confirmed nor denied it, it probably hadn’t happened. Margo was obviously inventing things. 

Quentin bit at his lip nervously. His enchanting blush had reached the tips of his ears. He clearly had zero idea just _how_ cute he was. “I’m not, um—that doesn’t sound like me.”

“But it’s definitely you,” Margo said, winking at him and giving him another once over. “Oh yeah. El here has mentioned seeing you _more than once_. Adorable dark-eyed boy in flannel, wears a man-bun. Definitely you.”

Eliot shook his head like Margo was clearly mistaken. And Quentin was enough of a shy, sweet nerd with that sexy air-of-innocence thing that he probably really thought Margo was making shit up. “I really don’t remember saying anything about—” Eliot started.

“I can’t believe I’m meeting _the_ Coffee Shop Boy.” Margo clearly thought she was very fucking amusing.

Fen appeared from the crowd behind Margo and wrapped her arms around her waist. “You’re terrible, sweetheart.”

“Thank you, honey,” Margo drawled. 

“You’re in the gross, generic pet name stage, I see,” Eliot said blandly.

“We sure as fuck are,” Margo said. “That doesn’t mean we’re a generic couple.”

“Damn right. We’re the absolute best. Because Margo is the _best_.” Fen rubbed her nose against Margo’s ear. “She’s my sweet potato.”

Jesus Christ. These two. He was happy for them, sure. But it was a little much. Margo was petting Fen’s hand absently, tracing over her fingers. Fen’s cheek was against Margo’s hair. Ugh. 

“I’m Fen,” she said, smiling at Quentin. “You’re Eliot’s coffee shop guy?”

“Uh,” Quentin said, eyes darting back and forth. The poor thing looked a little like he might sink into the floor. Eliot might join him, come to think of it. Apparently, Margo had recruited Fen to her evil plans to humiliate Eliot.

Quentin’s eyes went wide, and he transitioned from pink to scarlet, splotches blooming over his cheeks. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He sipped at his drink, eyes now glued on Eliot like Eliot could possibly save him. _No, darling. We’re being drawn and quartered together._

Margo was clearly delighted, letting out a peal of laughter, her hand against the bar to hold herself up. His beloved, treacherous bitch. Fuck. “So your name is Quentin?”

Quentin nodded. “Um. Yep.”

“I’ve been telling this idiot to actually introduce himself to you for like—how long, El? Six weeks?”

“Certainly not—” Eliot hedged. “Couldn’t be.”

“And he kept telling me it was no big deal. Which clearly means it’s a big fucking—”

“ _Margo_.”

“Eliot,” she said mildly, eyes still trained on Quentin. “What?”

“Definitely a big deal. I don’t even live here, and I’ve heard about you at least twice this week,” Fen said. 

Eliot shoved Margo’s drink across the bar. He would _not_ be making one for Fen. “Here’s your drink.” He should have made it with the shitty, bottom-shelf alcohol he kept around for Todd and his ilk. 

She took the drink but kept looking at Quentin, who seemed like he wanted to melt into the floor. “You know, I can see it. You’ve got a flannel-wearing straight-boy bedhead type of thing. I could just adopt you and put you in my pocket.” She reached out and pushed a stray bit of hair behind Quentin’s ear. Fen giggled.

“I’m not, um.” Quentin’s eyes darted back to Eliot. “I’m not.” And then it looked like he made a decision, and the decision involved getting away from Margo as quickly as possible. Eliot didn’t blame him, honestly. “You know what? I’m going to—you have a nice balcony. So. I’m going to go have a cigarette. Bye.”

Eliot watched him as he walked away. His bun was about to come completely undone. He’d probably get out to the balcony and manage to fall off of it somehow. Eliot should help him—fuck. No. 

“Margo, what the fuck?” 

She reached across the bar and patted Eliot on the arm, soothing. “What? I was giving you an opening. He’s clearly gagging for it.” 

“He absolutely wants to bone you,” Fen added. 

Eliot raised an eyebrow, looking between the two she-demons, who were both enjoying themselves far too much. “I told you I’m not interested. He’s too… wholesome. I’d get bored of him terribly fast. And he’d be clingy. Then I couldn’t go to The Cinnamon Roll ever again. And I’d fail out of graduate school and—”

“Weren’t you already about to go work on a goat farm?” Fen asked.

Margo started laughing. “El, you are so fucking dramatic with that goat farm bullshit.” 

“Hm. No, it’s true. Goat farm is my only option. I _could_ still pull something together to stay in New York. Which is another point in favor of ignoring Coffee Shop—Quentin. I need to figure my shit out. No distracting boys who want to stay for more than a night.”

“How do you know what type of boy he is?” Margo asked. 

“I’m an expert in these matters, darling. Thought you would be by now as well. Maybe you’re losing your edge.”

She put her hand to her chest in mock horror. “Well, I never. The things you say to me just to hurt me.”

“Margo still has every edge.” Fen kissed Margo’s cheek, and Margo grinned, a bit wicked. 

“I don’t know why you feel the need to push this narrative, Bambi. It’s not happening. And your paramour is just parroting your nefarious schemes.”

“Oh? I guess I was mistaken about the way you’ve been ogling him for the past hour. I’m also mistaken about you needing a smoke right about now, aren’t I?”

Eliot fiddled with the Zippo in his pocket. “You are indeed mistaken.”

“Okay, have it your way. Don’t be happy. Don’t be mature and get over yourself. Or talk to anyone who’s more than a cute face and a dick, I guess,” Margo said. 

Fen was now next to her, leaning against the bar and looking idly at her phone. “Definitely more than a cute face and a dick. He’s an adorable sweetie. I like him.”

“How do either of you know he’s not just a cute face and a dick?”

“You seem to think he’s something special. You have the look of a swooning regency heroine. I don’t see you like this. Thought I’d _be encouraging_ , or whatever. Kady tells me it’s ‘what friends do’.” She took a sip of her drink and then handed it to Fen. Gross. “Or maybe I just delight in fucking with you. You’ll never know.” Margo stood on her tiptoes and leaned up over the bar to kiss him on the cheek. She wouldn’t have made it if it weren’t for her heels. Beloved Bambi. Always so precious. And desperately misguided, now poisoning Fen with buckets of lies.

Eliot _did_ need a cigarette, but he was going to wait until Quentin reappeared inside. He’d made up his mind. He wasn’t going to talk to any cute nerds. He didn’t want to fuck with relationship-material boys, and besides, he’d be saving Quentin the heartache that Eliot would inevitably put him through. 

He fiddled with the Zippo in his pocket, glancing back at the door to the balcony. He could see a couple of shapes out there, but he couldn’t tell if either one of them was Quentin. 

“He’s out there,” Margo said. She shrugged when Eliot gave her a scandalized look. “What? Everyone might think you’re all mysterious, but I know what you’re about, El.” 

“I’m not about anything. But I do need a cigarette. I’m just going to wait until—” Quentin reappeared from the balcony, closing the sliding door behind him and looking over at Eliot for a moment. His lips were pink and parted, hair still disheveled. He probably smelled of smoke and the night air. “Well, now I’m going to have that smoke.” 

“Okay, Romeo. I’ll be right here with my dick in my hand—”

“Your dick is upstairs, sweetheart,” Fen said. 

Margo let out a delighted peal of laughter, falling against Fen’s shoulder. The nerve of them to be so impudent in his presence.

Eliot made a beeline for the balcony, not turning to look back. He sat down heavily in one of the plastic chairs that faced the courtyard behind their building. He sighed and pulled out his mostly crushed cigarettes and the lighter Margo had gotten engraved for him. _E. Waugh._ He smiled a little and flicked it open, watching the flame come to life as he placed a cigarette between his lips. Inhaling deeply, he let the smoke punish his lungs for just a moment and then watched it curl, gray and swirling, into the night. Behind him, the balcony door opened. 

“Bambi, I don’t currently require any company. I’ll be inside momentarily,” he said, flicking the lighter open again and staring at the flame. 

“Oh, um.”

 _Jesus Christ_.

He turned to see Quentin, who had now redone his bun, a stray tendril of hair falling over one side of his face. He had never been super into guys with long hair, but it really worked for him. And it always looked so clean and soft and _bouncy_. Like a shampoo commercial. He just stared at Quentin, possibly beyond the point of decency. He felt his eyes moving up and down, over his body. Totally out of his control at this point. “Yes?” 

Quentin was holding two drinks. He shoved one at Eliot. “Your friend said you’d want your drink.”

 _God_.

“Bambi’s Meddling Delivery Service. My favorite Studio Ghibli film.” 

At that, Quentin cracked a smile. Lips closed—but Eliot had noticed that’s always how Quentin smiled. His eyes had little crinkles at the corners, like even his eyes had dimples. Eliot’s heart tap-tap-tapped in his chest, a tingling flame just _sparking_ inside of him, the first crack of lightning after a drawn-out roll of thunder. Standing there with the light from the party illuminating his outline—broad at his shoulders, narrow at his waist—he looked like someone Eliot had imagined once, like not-quite-a-memory, more a fleeting thought, a wish. 

He shook off the feeling and took the drink from Quentin. It was a shitty version of the Aviation cocktail he’d made for himself before. Margo was many things, but a mixologist she was not. He sighed, impatient.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Eliot replied. He took a long gulp of the drink. He wasn’t going to waste his good gin and maraschino liqueur. It was strong; he could give her credit for that. He took another drag from his cigarette and set his drink down. 

“I’ll go if you—” 

He looked over at Quentin. _Tell him to go_. “No, that’s fine,” he managed. He gestured weakly at the chair next to him, his pulse scattered. There were still nights bugs at this time of year, even in the Bronx. They chirped and trilled in the small courtyard outside. 

“Oh—uh—good. I’ll have another cigarette.” Eliot watched Quentin light his menthol in the semi-darkness, the flame of his Bic lighter highlighting the lovely lines of his face.

“So,” Quentin started. Eliot waited a moment for him to say something else, but he didn’t. He looked over at Quentin, who was staring out into the courtyard, cigarette between his lips. 

There was a teacher in high school Eliot had a crush on—Mr. Kelley. He had long hair and soulful eyes like Quentin and favored plaid shirts with bowties unless it was a dress-down day, in which case he would wear his Star Trek shirt. Eliot wouldn’t admit to knowing the difference between Star Trek and the other thing, but he knew Mr. Kelley’s entire wardrobe. He’d not only solidified Eliot’s concept of his sexuality as ‘just about 100% into only banging guys,’ he’d also established Eliot’s not-so-secret fixation on nerds. And Quentin was sort of the pinnacle of that fixation—sweet and stuttering, a bit unsure of himself, very earnest and probably quite passionate about the things he loved. Eliot made a habit of not being very passionate about anything other than drinking, clothes, and Margo, and the order of those passions definitely varied by day. That was the draw, maybe—the very things that made him feel vulnerable became ludicrously attractive when he saw them in another person. 

“So,” Eliot said. 

Quentin looked at him and gave an embarrassed smile. 

“I never expected to see you outside of the coffee shop,” Quentin said. 

“No?” Eliot wasn’t surprised. Quentin didn’t exactly seem like the type of guy who went out of his way to talk to people who he didn’t already actively know. But here he was, flirting with Eliot on his balcony. What was happening? 

“No.” Quentin didn’t say anything for a moment. He sat there and smoked, staring up at the sky. “You’re doing the drama MFA?”

“Yes. I partake in the delights of theater. It’s my full time hobby.”

He couldn’t see Quentin smiling, but he thought he might be. When a car drove down the alleyway behind their row of shitty townhouses, the car light lit up Quentin’s face, and Eliot could see crinkles at the corners of his eyes, dimples next to his pink lips. “Writing is my full time hobby, I guess.”

Eliot thought of and ditched several things he might say to Quentin. That he’d noticed Quentin was always carrying around books of short stories and a bunch of science fiction and fantasy. That he had seen the MFA program sticker on his laptop and the one on his journal. And maybe he hadn’t gone so far as looking up the list of people in Quentin’s program, but he’d thought about it at least twice. Instead, he went for something that made him sound less like a serial killer. “What are you writing?”

“Oh, um. You wouldn’t want to know, I mean, it’s not that interesting.”

Eliot rolled his eyes. “I asked because I wanted to know.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s, uh. A set of short stories. Like literary, though. Or, I hope. I’m obviously not like, that amazing at talking but… I’m okay at writing. We’ll see. Doing short stories for class. I did English lit in undergrad. You?”

“What am I working on, or what did I study in undergrad?”

“Either. Both.” 

“We’re doing ‘The Tempest’ next semester. And I majored in theater at Purchase.” Eliot lit another cigarette, trying not to dwell on the fact that he felt bubbly and giddy and nervous all at once. It was very un-Eliot. But he was being social at a party with a friend of Kady’s not-girlfriend, and that was a _normal_ thing people did, regardless of Margo’s meddling. 

“Your friend doesn’t seem very much like, a, um, _Bambi_.”

Eliot grinned. “It’s suitable because she’s so unlike a baby deer.”

“Oh, well, that clears everything up,” Quentin said. “Like crystal clear.”

“Margo is an enigma. Vicious, fabulous bitch and a secret nerd. Insists on making my life difficult.” Eliot gestured vaguely. “Such as it is. I’ll be working on a goat farm before long. She’ll be out of my hair.”

“A—um—what?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

“And she’s a, um, secret nerd?”

“The nerdiest.” Eliot drained some more of his drink, which tasted more like what he’d imagine lighter fluid would taste like and less like an actual cocktail. “She insisted I read Harry Potter. I read the first… one and a half books. And I watched the movies after smoking quite a lot of Margo’s weed.”

Quentin laughed, apparently very amused about something. He started giggling in a pretty fucking adorable way. If Eliot chose to look, which he wasn’t planning on doing, there would probably be _dimples_.

“What, pray tell, is so humorous?” Eliot polished off his drink, making a hearty attempt to kill the twisting feeling he got when he looked at Quentin. 

“Harry Potter isn’t nerdy. It’s like—fucking basic. That’s what it is.”

“I’ll have you know that I dug in and spent an entire day watching children’s movies for the sake of my Bambi. She’s trying to get me to read Game of Thrones, but it’s a million pages, and I simply can’t be expected to spend my time that way.” 

He could almost hear Quentin’s dimples forming. He was enchanting. “And what do you know about Harry Potter now?”

“There are wands. And a castle. Dragons. Ralph Fiennes with no nose. And… Bambi says we’re in Slytherin House, whatever that’s supposed to mean.” 

“That tracks.”

“And you?”

“Me? Oh, um. It’s not my like, preferred fandom.” 

What the fuck was he talking about? Fantasy shit was fantasy shit; it was all the same. “So you’re saying that if you got a letter delivered to you by owl—”

“Sounds like you know more than you’re letting on.”

Eliot ignored that. “—that you wouldn’t go to Hogwarts—”

“You’re a nerd,” Quentin said. 

“I’m not. Also, irrelevant.” Eliot cleared his throat and started over. “You’re saying you _wouldn’t_ respond to your owl letter, and you _wouldn’t_ get sorted into a house?”

“I never said that.” Quentin stubbed out his cigarette. “I’d definitely respond. I’d go. I’m just saying it’s not my—”

“ _Preferred fandom._ I recall. So what house?”

“Gryffinclaw.” His tone was equivalent to an eye roll, like _duh obviously._

“You can’t pick two houses.”

“How’d you know that was, a um, _portmanteau_? If you’re not a—fucking nerd?”

“My three remaining brain cells have retained enough about the movies to know that’s a _portmanteau_. And not an acceptable answer.” 

“It’s the only answer you’re going to get. It’s the only like, _acceptable_ answer because the like, sorting thing. It’s basically social, like, segregation, which like—like—creates really harmful cliques. Especially with Slytherin, which is supposedly full of kids from um, old wizarding families who are like, fucking _racist_.”

“Oh yeah?” Eliot put his chin on his hand and leaned toward Quentin a little, not quite meaning to do so. But his voice was nice, and he was getting just a bit animated as he talked. When another car passed, and his face was illuminated again, Eliot saw his sheepish little grin. The merest hint of a dimple. _Yes, tell me more about Hogwarts, baby, and I’ll watch those lovely lips just move._

“—and the whole, like, sorting hat process, is exclusionary and, um, no one wants to be a fucking Hufflepuff. It’s just like, such a simple plot device that introduces all this conflict. It’s not that smart, you know. It’s not smart writing. So, yeah, I think at least—you look at it, you know, and you have probably some qualities of each house, actually. Except for Slytherin House, which like, only has two qualities, and it’s like—being from a big-name family or just being a dick. It’s also just unfair to the Slytherin characters like, um, Draco, who is actually like, a secretly decent person. But he has to go all the way to the end of the series just continuously acting like a dick. Because apparently you can’t like, grow or change. You’re just like, always your house. Even though Draco deserved a—a—a redemption arc.”

“Slytherin House is all about ambition, getting ahead. Looking out for yourself.” Eliot paused. “Though I agree with you about Draco. He just wanted Harry to love him.”

“Yeah?” Quentin laughed. Eliot was rather pleased with himself; he guessed that a real laugh from Quentin was likely a rare thing. “Find that on Tumblr?”

“I came to that big gay conclusion all on my own.”

 _That_ got Quentin started on a big gay Hogwarts rant, which really shouldn’t have been cute at all, but it really, really was. Even though he was talking about what was ostensibly a children’s series, he was sharp and insightful and more than a little bit indignant on behalf of the ‘lack of actual representation’ in the books. 

“So, do you?” Quentin asked. His eyes were on Eliot in the dark. He pushed the pieces of his hair that had come loose behind his ear. 

“Hm?” Eliot realized he’d been watching Quentin’s mouth. Honestly, he couldn’t be blamed.

“Um. I said, do you actually think you’re a Slytherin? Or are you letting Margo be your Sorting Hat?”

“Oh, Margo is definitely my Sorting Hat.” He shrugged. It didn’t make sense, but it felt appropriate. “And I think I cultivate enough of an aristocratic attitude to be a Slytherin. _Sans_ racism. Just the dick part.”

“You don’t seem like a dick.” Quentin sounded so fucking sincere it made Eliot’s face hurt.

It was quiet on the balcony. Eliot sort of wanted another cigarette. He also sort of wanted to ask Quentin to come up to his room and tell him his thoughts on _Game of Thrones_. Really, he didn’t even have to touch Quentin. Just listen to him. _Shit. Cease and desist, brain._

“No one has ever accused me of being a good person.” Eliot took out another cigarette and lit it. No time like the present to kill his lungs just a little bit more. “Because I’m not. It’s not in my DNA.”

“You seem absolutely awful,” Quentin said. 

“I’m 100% awful.” Eliot’s drink was empty. “After I finish this cigarette, I’m making you another drink.”

“That seems like an altruistic offer. For a dick.”

“Believe me. It’s entirely selfish.”

~~***~~

Quentin was well and truly sauced approximately one hour later. Eliot had a way of making that happen. Gone was the sad little perma-frown Quentin wore at the coffee shop approximately eighty percent of the time. Eliot hadn’t realized just how sweet Quentin’s smile was. Eliot didn’t generally think _anything_ was sweet; it wasn’t a word he used. But that’s what he was thinking when he watched Quentin’s eyes crinkle. His dimples appeared. It was insane how adorable he was. If he’d thought up a boy and had him created in a boy factory, the final product would definitely resemble Quentin. Not that he was planning anything with Quentin. He held steady to the premise that boys like Quentin didn’t want to stay just one night. And Eliot getting emotionally invested in someone… it wasn’t impossible; it was just a catastrophe waiting to happen. Well, with Mike, it had definitely been a catastrophe. He wasn’t about to do it again.

The more the night wore on, the more he wondered exactly how and why he’d made that rule. 

And Quentin was… well, Quentin was sort of staying in Eliot’s orbit. He’d appear at Eliot’s arm while he was talking to one of the crew members, and he saved Eliot from Todd _twice_ after Eliot mentioned he’d rather eat nails than hear Todd talk about lighting. The second time, Quentin had thought it was so funny that he couldn’t stop laughing for a solid five minutes. Eliot usually _ran_ parties at The Cottage. As a celebrated hedonist, he always maintained the perfect level of tipsy, followed by a measured amount of weed to cool down at the end of the evening. It was a balancing act, and he was the champion at it. For the first time since moving in here, however, he felt more like a guest than a host, able to enjoy himself, (maybe, slightly) flirting with Quentin and listening to him wax poetic on the glories of young adult fantasy fiction and ramble charmingly about his plans for a seven-book series. 

It was precious. He was like an amalgam of Mr. Kelley and a chocolate lab puppy with his profound sincerity and his silky curtain of hair with its burnished gold highlights. Eliot swooned every time Quentin tucked a stray lock behind his ear with his whole hand, looking up at Eliot with those vaguely pleading eyes. 

Regardless of whether or not he was _going to_ , Eliot felt sure he could fuck Quentin tonight if he wanted. Eliot was maybe seventy-five percent sure his new friend wasn’t straight. He’d just about said as much. He let himself enjoy the thought, rolling it over in his head, considering how fascinating it would be to get Quentin in bed, wipe the tense look off his face by nibbling on his earlobe and getting a hand around his cock. If Eliot had to guess, Quentin was probably sweetly responsive and vocal in bed, and he’d probably _never_ fucked anyone as good in bed as Eliot (not that Eliot had a big head about it). He probably babbled about dick just like he did about books and nerdy TV shows, and Eliot was fairly certain Quentin _needed_ something in his mouth at all times, with the way he chewed on his lip and pressed his mouth to the edge of his cup even when he wasn’t drinking. Eliot’s fingers or his cock, Quentin’s pouty mouth… It was just an idle thought, wasn’t it? He wasn’t fully committed to the seduction. It was an _idea_ , and it was maybe not as terrible an idea as Eliot originally thought. He might have been wrong about his instincts when it came to this boy… Quentin could be fabulously carefree about sex, for all Eliot knew. He was maybe being a little quick to judge, wasn’t he? 

Somewhere along the way, Eliot decided to throw caution to the wind. He made a seduction-commitment, and he honed in on Quentin, sure that this was a game he could win, if only he played his cards right.

It was nearly three in the morning when the party started to wind down. Quentin’s roommate had studiously _avoided_ going up to Kady’s room, he noted. There was plenty of touching and flirting… just no luck with the actual sex part. Pity. Not that he cared terribly, but he knew Kady wasn’t as full of rage when she was getting laid regularly, so he could hope that she’d start getting lady-dicked for purely selfish reasons. 

Eliot was at that level of drunkenness that really brought out his lack of impulse control. Quentin was standing next to him talking about… what was he talking about? Something called Fillory. Eliot had no idea what the fuck that was, but Quentin was endlessly fucking adorable, and he kept tucking his hair behind his ears and fiddling with the sleeves of his flannel shirt and talking about character arcs and the hero’s journey and other things Eliot hazily remembered from undergrad. 

“Q, c’mon, let’s go,” Quentin’s roommate said, appearing out of nowhere to smite Eliot’s recent dreams. 

“Uh, why—it’s um. Oh.” Quentin looked at his phone. “Shit, it is kind of late. Let me—I’m going to—have another cigarette.”

“You shouldn’t smoke,” the roommate said. Janet? No. It was Julia. He’d talked to her. 

“You fucking smoke, Julia.”

“You’re smoking a lot right now, _Quentin_.”

“Maybe I want to. Maybe I don’t just, like, go around making rules for myself to, uh, make myself unhappy.” 

_What the fuck?_

Eliot was fiddling with the pack of cigarettes, waiting to casually follow Quentin out to the porch. 

“Fuck. Quentin. Goddammit.” Julia was clearly also drunk and incapable of forming complete thoughts. 

“Jules. I’m going to smoke. Then we can go.”

_Hopefully not. Julia can make it back to their apartment on her own, can’t she? She seems like she could drop-kick a bitch. Surely, she’ll be safe. This is why they invented Uber. And Lyft._

Quentin turned and walked toward the balcony. Eliot waited for a beat of twenty seconds to follow. He thought that was reasonable and not _totally_ obvious. Of course, he’d drawn Margo’s attention since she’d been watching him like a jaguar stalking prey all fucking night. She speeded over to him and caught his wrist. “How’s it going with whatshisname?” 

“Quentin.”

“Right. Quentin,” she said, smiling slowly. “He staying over?”

“If you let my wrist go, maybe.” 

She let him go. “Make good choices, baby.”

“Never, Bambi.”

When he walked out on the balcony, Quentin was on one of the chairs, knees tucked beneath him. He was beautifully vulnerable looking with his whole body tensed, cigarette between his lips. 

“Hey,” Quentin said, not looking up. 

“Hey.” Eliot took a seat next to him and lit a cigarette, watching Quentin smoke in the hazy half-light on the balcony. Quentin’s hair was over one eye, and he looked dangerously adorable and bitchy, his normal soft frown a bit harder than usual. “You’re leaving after this?”

“Uh. Yeah.” He sounded annoyed, which only made Eliot even more eager to discard his morals around hooking up with nerds. In bed, Quentin would likely be deliciously bratty and cantankerous, and probably also quite eager about, well… everything. Eliot wanted to volunteer for that position now that he’d had a taste of Quentin, consequences be damned. 

Eliot leaned toward him and put an experimental hand on Quentin’s shoulder, brushing a finger just inside the collar of his shirt. Quentin went very, very still, his eyes still pointedly focused on the back alley. “You don’t have to leave,” Eliot said. “I have a big bed. Julia can crash with Kady.”

Eliot waited. This was the line that sealed the deal. He couldn’t remember it failing in recent history. Maybe in undergrad, but he hadn’t been the same man he was now. He’d been working Quentin up all night with suggestive comments and a carefully placed caress here and there. To an onlooker, it looked like flirting. But Eliot had decided approximately two hours ago that he _was_ going to fuck Quentin. So this was… more like foreplay.

Quentin let out a breathy little laugh. He didn’t brush Eliot’s hand away, but he didn’t lean into it either, not like Kit (Jason? John?) had just before Quentin had arrived. “Thanks, but.”

Eliot dropped his hand. “Oh.”

“I mean. I’m flattered,” Quentin said. He was turned away from Eliot, still watching cars go by in the dark.

_He’s flattered?_

“I just don’t date. Or hook up. Not never. Just not right now. And it’s not worth it to just do it once, you know?” Quentin took another drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke out in a cloud. “Maybe for someone else. Not for me.”

“Oh,” Eliot said again because all the words had left his brain. This always worked. Because Eliot was Eliot. He was a massive fuck-up about many, many things, but not about _this_. His seduction plans had always been foolproof. Sure, maybe he was a little off his game tonight because Quentin made him slightly… flustered. But Quentin was picking up his signals. He was flirting _back,_ for fuck’s sake. He wasn’t straight. He couldn’t be. “You’re not—um.” What was he going to say? Not interested? Not… into guys? Or not attracted to Eliot? He didn’t like any of those possibilities, and Eliot sounded like a fucking idiot.

“Not what?”

“Never mind.”

“No, enlighten me.” Quentin had turned to him, stubbing out his cigarette. His eyes were sharp, lips drawn together. 

“Look, I struck out here. I’m not exactly sure what I did wrong—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s a distraction I don’t have time for. That’s all.” He got up and smoothed his rumpled flannel shirt; his jeans were worn and faded at the knees. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels. “I’m just not a check mark in a little black book.”

“That’s a mixed metaphor.”

Quentin shrugged. “That’s just, you know, what this feels like. It was good, like, just chatting. But then.”

“You’re angry.”

“‘If I be waspish, best beware my sting,’ Eliot.” 

“‘My remedy is then to pluck it out.’ Though I guess I won’t get the chance.” Eliot shrugged. Quentin was… such a puzzle of a person—shy and skittish at the coffee shop, flirtatious when he met Eliot for real. And now, he wasn’t quite _offended_ —but—there was something simmering below the surface, something that almost _asked_ for a challenge. He would make a joke about ' _my tongue in your tail_ ,' but he was pretty sure _that_ ship had fucking sailed. His tongue wasn't going near anyone's tail tonight. Quite un-fucking-fortunately. “Quoting my own play at me, ‘curst shrew.’”

“It’s uh. I think Shakespeare wrote it. Not you. Can’t be sure, I’ve had a few drinks.”

“Rings a bell,” Eliot said. “I thought you liked me in it.”

“I did. You were great. Very, uh. Witty. The brocade suited you. Quite kingly.” His tone was milder now, but still cool compared to his fantasy-world jabbering. “Uh. Julia probably wants to—and I’ll, you know. I’ll see you around, Eliot. No hard feelings.” He gave Eliot one of those little waves he liked so well, turned and walked back inside, and out the door with Julia, toward home. And away from Eliot.


	6. Little fire grows great with little wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q and Julia have brunch. Quentin inhales some coffee; has regrets.

~Quentin~

“You were getting pretty cozy with Cinnamon Roll Hottie,” Julia said. There were dark circles under her eyes, but she’d rallied for their Sunday morning tradition—the _Times_ crossword and brunch at The Heights with all the other hungover students at Columbia.

“His name is Eliot,” Quentin said absently, like he hadn’t jerked off thinking about him this morning. Twice. Julia didn’t need to know his level of, like, investment. He was looking down at his copy of the crossword, not really paying attention to it. He was… thinking about Eliot’s forearms, how he’d rolled up his shirtsleeves sometime towards midnight, while he was talking about Shakespeare and the various productions he’d attended in New York. Quentin had tried to listen, but he was so intrigued by those slender, but strong-looking arms, his graceful wrists, his long fingers. He shivered, thinking of all the times Eliot had casually touched him the night before.

“Your crossword is blank. I’m pulling ahead,” Julia said.

“Huh? Oh. I guess I’m still, like, a little hungover.” He scratched at his hair, still damp from the shower. “And my throat is fucking sore.” He added cream to his coffee and took a long swig of it, willing himself to wake up from the hazy dream he’d been living in for most of the morning.

“You smoked like, fifty cigarettes last night.” Julia was covering her eggs in a ludicrous amount of hot sauce. He cringed. 

“Yeah, well. Look who’s talking.”

“No, no, Don Juan. You were out on the balcony with _Eliot_ , listening to him talk about—what? Like, hair product? Ties? Expensive liqueur?”

“Shakespeare. He was talking about Shakespeare. He’s not some—just some—pretty face. And, um, we talked about Harry Potter. And he listened to me talk about Fillory for a long time—” He glanced up at Julia, who was wearing a coy grin. “You were winding me up.” He balled up a napkin and threw it at her.

“Hey, c’mon. You have such a _thing_ for him, and he’s _so cute_. And he was so into you. I can’t believe he didn’t ask you to—”

Quentin bit at his lip. “He did. He told me, uh—‘You don’t have to leave—I have a big bed.’ Which is, like, probably something he says to a whole fucking lot of guys. I mean. Look at him.”

“I did look at him. He’s not hard to look at.” 

Quentin laughed. “Yeah. That’s like. An understatement.”

“Why didn’t you?” A wicked little smile was blooming on Julia’s face.

“Why didn’t I what?” Quentin knit his eyebrows together in mock confusion, sipping at his coffee. 

“Why didn’t you stay over?”

“You mean, why didn’t I fuck him? Because—it’s just—that’s all he wanted. Just a meaningless one-night-stand. He probably moved on to that guy who played Kit. He looked like he was ready to jump Eliot all night, even though Eliot didn’t, like. Remember his fucking name.”

“Well, he remembered your name, didn’t he?”

“‘Quentin’ is such a dorky name; it’s kinda hard to forget.”

“And he didn’t _have to_ let you talk at him about Fillory for like an hour. I saw him. He was hanging on your every word and practically melting into your lap.”

“That’s not—that’s not how it was. I mean. He talked to me, yeah. Because he was trying to get me to his _big bed_. And it was fun, like. Talking to him. He’s smart. And funny. And yeah, okay. He’s super fucking hot. But—I’m not. I don’t—I don’t have time to throw myself into a relationship. And I—I don’t want to sleep with someone once and never hear from them again. That’s not what I want right now. I don’t _need_ sex or romance. I can date, like dedicate time to it, once I’m out of fucking grad school. When I get a book published.”

“Which is it?”

“Which is what?” Quentin dabbed raspberry jam and butter on his biscuit and took a bite, savoring the sweetness as it melted against his tongue.

“When you finish grad school? Or when you get a book published? I’m hearing a whole lot of ‘when, when, when.’”

“Okay, Jules.” Quentin polished off the rest of his coffee and sighed. “Let’s talk about you for a second—”

“Let’s not.”

“No, let’s. There is a woman over there at that house who is—yes, frankly quite terrifying. But—but very hot. And she really, really likes you. Katie—”

“Kady.”

“—Kady was like, making big heart eyes at you all night. And she seems like, really, really cool. And very—super creative. And she’s involved with the Queer Grad Student Union. And she directed that fucking play—and she’s doing another one—”

“How do you know so much about her?” Julia crossed her arms. Her eggs looked like they’d been massacred—death by sexually frustrated Julia. Murder weapon: hot sauce. 

“You. You talk about her incessantly. You really, really like her. So why didn’t you—”

“You know why.”

“I’m not going to be party to your whimsical romance restrictions. Who you date has like, absolutely zero to do with me.” 

“So you wouldn’t care if I put all kinds of stupid restrictions on myself when it comes to dating someone I really like?”

“I—what? That’s already what you’re doing.” Julia looked at him like she was confused. God, he loved her _and_ he truly fucking hated her. He had his decisions. She had hers. Their ideas on romance did _not_ need to get tangled up together. 

“That’s _also_ what you’re doing, Jules. So what if I’m not, like, having sex with some guy who, you know, wouldn’t bother to get my number—”

“You don’t know that—”

“It was pretty clear that, like, getting in touch and keeping numbers is, uh. Absolutely not how he operates. But that’s not at all—fucking relevant to you. Kady likes you. You like her. You’re putting some artificial timeline on your own happiness—”

“Pot. Kettle.” 

“Let me finish.” Quentin signaled for more coffee. Because good God, Julia really made him need coffee. “I might be restricting myself or what the fuck ever. But I’m not tying it up with my best friend’s sex life. Because I’m a reasonable fucking human being—”

“You’re absolutely not.” Julia pushed her eggs around on her plate and fiddled with one of the raw sugar packets she’d used for her coffee. “You—you like him.”

“Fine. Like, I do like him. I can’t deny that.”

“You’ve been referring to him as ‘Cinnamon Roll Hottie’ for the past six weeks, so yeah. Don’t deny it.”

“I believe you’re the one who, uh. Developed that name. Julia.”

“You _quickly_ adopted it.”

“And I’m not denying having a, like, very mild—uh. Crush. On… him.”

“Eliot. Say it. _Eliot_.” She gave him a grin, teasing. “I think he might like you more than you think. I mean. Hashtag yolo, Quentin.”

“Oh, oh look—” He picked up the crossword puzzle and pretended to examine it. “What’s a five letter word for ‘fuck off, Julia?’”

She started laughing and nearly spat out her coffee. “The promise still stands. I’ll get over my shit when you’re dating someone. Preferably someone tall, dark, and handsome.”

Quentin went a little red. That made Eliot sound like a Disney prince. Prince Charming. But he was more like an indie cartoon rogue, though—rakish and debonaire, seducing unsuspecting peasant boys. If you were thinking in terms of animated characters, which Quentin _definitely wasn’t_. “Uh. Well. That’s just. Not going to happen, Julia.”

Julia shrugged and signaled for the check. “You never know.” After she’d put down some cash, she caught Quentin’s eye with a smirk. “You were so distracted you didn’t finish the crossword.” Julia pushed her bit of newspaper across the table to Quentin—with each word complete. “Your turn to buy.”

Quentin rolled his eyes. Fair was fair.

The day was crisp and cool when they started the walk home. October was just about on the horizon, and New York had started to hint at autumn in the mornings and evenings. It would be blazing hot come noon, but that’s just how September was. He fiddled with the lighter in his pocket and considered a cigarette, but the ache in his throat held him back. Something about Eliot had made him sink into smoking last night, even when he hadn’t been on the balcony with Quentin. And he had been right next to Quentin a lot, hadn’t he? Like. All night. Just... like he wanted to hear Quentin talk. That couldn’t be right. 

It didn’t matter. And it didn’t matter that Quentin had words for his past self this morning about _not_ taking the opportunity to hook up with an incredibly hot guy who was most likely _really_ talented with his smirky mouth and his clever hands. He’d forgotten for a while _why_ he had a hard and fast rule about _not_ having random sex every once in a while. (He wasn’t opposed to the idea when he came in the shower thinking about Eliot’s mouth.) But he’d heartily rejected Eliot, so he’d burned that bridge and there wasn’t anything to be done. Eliot had probably banged that guy from the play and moved right the fuck on.

“You going to The Cinnamon Roll this week?” 

“Uh.” Fuck. He hadn’t thought about that. It was the perfect coffee shop. Great scones. Excellent lattes. Tables that didn’t wobble. Outlets with USB ports and comfy, soft chairs for the taking. Lots of light, sunbeams where he could sit and try to photosynthesize. And now… it might be awkward. Not a reason to give up a whole coffee shop, was it? “Um. Yeah. Probably? I mean. It’s my study spot. I’m not like. Giving it up.”

Julia threaded her arm through Quentin’s. “Not even because you _rejected_ a super fucking sexy, talented guy?”

“Uh. Yep. Not even that can keep me away from the butterscotch scones. They’ll probably have their pumpkin scones out this week. Fingers crossed.”

The leaves were just barely starting to change, and dappled sunlight spilled over the sidewalk. It was a perfect morning for writing or catching up on his reading. Maybe at the coffee shop. Eliot didn’t go there on Sundays. So maybe he had Eliot’s schedule sort of memorized. That was just a thing his brain did, but not like, consciously. He wasn’t being creepy on purpose. His stalker-ish knowledge of Eliot’s coffee shop timing might be helpful in avoiding any potential weirdness. And maybe it wouldn’t be weird at all. Eliot would know that Quentin wasn’t worth the trouble.

He thought, idly, about the first time he’d seen Eliot there. Quentin had been so flustered that he’d left his damn scone on the counter. Eliot was just so... cool and graceful and full of that above-it-all sophistication that sent sparks of buzzing electricity straight through his center, like he’d been sleeping before and was suddenly shocked awake, his eyes opened, something vitally important revealed. He’d had the strangest feeling that when he’d locked eyes with Eliot the first time. An impression. Like déjà vu, but not quite. Almost like he’d known Eliot before—just not here. Not quite like this. _Oh_ , Quentin had thought, _there he is._

It was a laughably romantic notion. Quentin dismissed it out of hand. It was a simple trick of the mind—you see someone beautiful, and you imagine you were married to them in an alternate timeline. Not that Quentin had ever felt that way before about anyone. But those kinds of things happened to people, like, hypothetically. And it didn’t mean a thing. Trick of the mind. Quentin was sure of it.

He’d put it out of his mind for now. That was best for the weasels that inhabited his brain.

~~***~~

The coffee shop was mostly empty when Quentin got there. He found himself looking around for Eliot when he slumped into his favorite overstuffed chair by the window. He was still looking around for him (even though Eliot _didn’t_ , as a rule, show up at The Cinnamon Roll on Sundays) after he’d eaten half of his butterscotch scone and finished all of his coffee. He had nothing left to do but actually open his laptop and start to work.

Quentin was almost to the halfway mark of the story he was working on. It was not quite fantasy—more magical realism, if he were to label it. The story focused on a young man who lived on his own in the forest, tucked away in the Adirondacks, in a post-apocalyptic dystopian future where people were _forced_ to form heteronormative family units—wife, kids, all that. From the time he was a young boy, the man had simply wanted to be alone. In the home he’d built, he started manifesting powers that gave him the ability to thrive alone in the forest. He could coax grain to grow in the rocky soil, summon the rain, start fires with a flick of his fingers. If he was lonely, he never stopped to think about it. 

Quentin was puzzling over his character arc, writing down the things he wanted to see from him by the end of the story. It seemed he might need to invent a second character, but he didn’t know quite how to weave someone else in. But in order to grow, he needed someone else, didn't he? He needed someone to help him grow. Not everyone did, but Quentin felt it would be sort of the, like, _point_ of his story. He wondered, idly, if it was a romance. He had his journal out on his lap, next to his computer, all of it balanced precariously on his knees. He was drawing a sketch of the house, picturing the man as he drew water from the well out back.

‘Must have a scene lifting water from well,’ he wrote. He tapped his chewed up pencil against his cheek. 

“Hey, Quentin.”

Quentin jolted and nearly sent everything flying off of his lap. He looked up, and there was Eliot. He was wearing actual jeans today, which was a rare occurrence according to the stalker in Quentin’s brain. They were tight on his long legs and looked expensive. His purple button-down was untucked, and he was wearing one of his waist-accentuating vests in a deep blue. Eliot really got away with ensembles that would look utterly ridiculous on anyone else, but Eliot always looked runway-ready. Quentin was wearing a beat-up Columbia sweatshirt and the jeans he wore last night. He wasn’t even coffee shop-ready.

Behind Eliot, Margo and Fen were in line, arguing over which pastries to order. Quentin’s cheeks went hot, and he half-covered up his sketch of the woodland house. Eliot didn’t really need proof of how boring Quentin’s Sundays were. Though, Eliot could probably guess.

“Um. Hi. You’re not—” Quentin stopped himself. What was he going to say? ‘You’re not usually here on Sundays?’ Yikes. Restraining order territory. Eliot didn’t need evidence of that, either. “I mean. Nice to see you.” He cringed. Shit.

“I thought you might be sleeping off the Moscow Mules.” To his absolute and unending horror, Eliot sat down in the chair next to his. What the fuck was going on?

“Uhh. No. Jules and I go out to brunch on Sundays and do the Times crossword.” 

“How delightfully domestic of you.” Eliot’s eyes were on his, sparkling, more copper than green today.

“Every Sunday since high school. Whoever finishes last buys brunch. My life is, like. Super exciting that way.” He tapped his pencil against the journal. Just being this close to Eliot made his pulse quicken, barely contained desire thrumming right below his skin.

“She’s your Margo.”

Quentin bit down on a smile. “You know, that’s fitting. I think. Pushy? Overbearing? Short? Probably smarter than you about like, life stuff?”

“Spot on,” Eliot said.

“But have you ever spent like, four years pining over her and planning your wedding while you listen to Ben Folds and cry?” Quentin wasn’t sure where the barrage of words were coming from, but they kept falling from his stupid garbage mouth. And Eliot was sitting there smiling, looking at Quentin like he was charmed.

“Can’t say that I have.”

“And then realizing you’re also having sex dreams about her hot boyfriend? And pining after him, too. Like a—a disaster human.”

“That’s more relatable.” Eliot laughed, warm and rich. “Definitely been there, done that. Didn’t want the t-shirt. Margo has Fen, now, though. No boyfriends to hand off to me. They’re brutally happy. It’s revolting.”

“Hi, _Quentin_.” Margo came up and handed Eliot a coffee. “You know, this is a nice coffee shop. Maybe I’ll come here every day, all week long, just to see if I can catch a glimpse of you.”

“Um. Cool. I’ll save a chair if I see you in line.” Quentin swallowed. The roof of his mouth was tacky. Was she implying that Eliot came here to see _him_? Couldn’t be.

She looked over the contents of Quentin’s bag, coolly assessing. She snatched up one of the books from his pile. Quentin braced himself, waiting for the inevitable snipe about children’s fantasy books. “Ember’s holy balls. This is a first edition. With the illustrations by that Edward Gorey copycat. This is a fuckin’ treasure.”

“Uh.” What was happening? “Thanks. I found it in, um, a little used book shop in Harlem. Got it for like, five bucks.” 

“Huh. They didn’t know what the fuck they had, did they?”

Quentin smiled, glancing at Eliot, who was watching him intently. “They sure didn’t. I probably treat it badly carrying it around all the time—”

She tossed him the book, and he fumbled, nearly dropping everything on his lap. “Nah. Books are meant to be read. If you’ve got that edition, I’m betting you have like six other copies of _The World in the Walls_.”

“Yeah. Something like that. I’m still looking for the Japanese edition with the anime-looking cover.” 

Margo’s eyes sparkled. “I’ve got that one. You should come over and check it out sometime. Visit the Cottage. Eliot will make you a signature cocktail.” She winked at him. “Maybe it’ll work this time.” 

Quentin swallowed against the lump forming in his throat. Eliot’s gaze was locked on him, knees canted toward Quentin’s, broad, graceful hand resting on his thigh. He radiated, like, a sexual energy that was destroying Quentin’s ability to form coherent thoughts. Off the charts charisma. Fuck. “I—uh. Um. Well, I. Thanks for the… offer?”

Fen barreled into Margo and looped an arm around her shoulders before she nuzzled against her neck. “The concert at the park is starting in five minutes. It’s a folk _festival_. Isn’t that delightful? A festival for folk music!”

Eliot rolled his eyes in Quentin’s direction.

“You mentioned it a hundred times this morning, baby,” Margo purred. “We’re going. I promise.” 

Fen handed a coffee to Eliot. “I’m pretty new to the city. We never had all these _events_ and beautiful things to do in the fall.”

“Not quite fall yet,” Quentin said. “But soon. You should get to upstate New York and look at the leaves. Or whatever people do up there.” 

Fen laughed. “I’m adding it to the list. We do have leaves in Minnesota, but I’m sure it’s different here.”

Quentin raised an eyebrow. “They’re great here, I guess.”

“Hey,” Margo said, “Don’t go giving her any big ideas. I’m already overcommitted with all the things this one wants me to do.” 

Eliot shrugged. “It’s better than actual work.”

“C’mon. Bid your boy ‘adieu,’ El,” Margo said. “They’ve got cheap cocktails at the park, like a food truck bar situation.” 

“I’m in,” Eliot said. “Just give me a second.”

Quentin watched helplessly as Margo and Fen walked out of The Cinnamon Roll. They had made a pretty good buffer between him and the guy who was currently starring in his fantasies. Quentin was about to launch into another justification for his decisions the previous night, but when he opened his mouth to speak, Eliot put a hand up and stopped him. 

“Sorry about last night.” A pause. “Friends?” Eliot asked. 

“Sure. Yeah,” Quentin said. “I’ll, uh. See you around.” 

“You will,” Eliot said. He stood and walked out behind Margo and Fen, sipping his coffee and looking every inch the rogue sent to unmoor Quentin from the goals of his noble quest. 

When Quentin went back to his writing, he started a new section about a character more skilled in magic than the young man in the forest, someone who’d shown up to help him.

It was very fucking obvious to Quentin what his brain was doing, but he went with it. Words were words. He took creative inspiration where he could get it. He thought he didn’t really need to pay that much attention to where they were coming from. And he certainly didn’t have to _act_ on it.

He’d just keep on as he had since his breakup with Alice. 

And he wouldn’t bend to the thought of certain roguish boys who showed up in his forest.


	7. Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot makes a shady-ass deal.

~Eliot~

“I said no.”

“C’mon. It’s just a date. Don’t you go on dates?” Kady’s feet were up on the coffee table, philistine that she was, and she had Eliot fixed with her best rage-face. It was really more like resting rage face since she carried that angry-at-the-world thing with her approximately all of the time. Honestly, she pulled it off with aplomb. Eliot would never admit it.

“Not really,” Eliot drawled, flipping through the playbook for _The Tempest._ “Boys find me. I don’t find them. They stay the night, and I kick them out in the morning. Earlier if necessary. Makes things less complicated.”

“Couldn’t you take one for the team?” 

Eliot sighed, closing up the book. “You’re not a team, Kady. You’re one person.”

“Aren’t we all, I don’t know, a family?” 

Eliot bit at his lip. “No. We live in your house.”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

“Hard on me not to. I’m so talented at it.”

Kady groaned. “God. You’re right about that. Listen—come on. I know you like him. Just ask him out. He’ll say yes.” 

“He said _no_.”

“When you told him you wanted to fuck him. That’s not the same as like, dinner and a movie.”

“Oh? What’s the difference? I’m confused.” Eliot made a face that he felt conveyed his mock-concern. He was an actor, after all. “Movies are also at least thirty dollars, and Daddy doesn’t have that kind of money right now.”

Margo strolled in from the balcony, closing the door behind her. “We talking about Quentin again? And Eliot’s aversion to actually asking him out?” 

“No,” Eliot said, sighing.

“Yes,” Kady corrected. 

“Hm. Interesting. He keeps making excuses to run into him at the coffee shop. That hasn’t stopped.” Margo was clearly a traitor who should likely be imprisoned. Kady did not need to be privy to this information. It was wholly irrelevant and patently untrue. "That's evidence, right there."

“I do not. I like working there.” Eliot opened his book again, going back through and highlighting all of Ariel’s lines. He looked forward to playing a character who didn’t have the reputation of being a supreme douchebag. 

“You like working there while _Quentin_ is there.”

“He just happens to be there when I go.” Eliot flipped through the play, not really reading it, just trying to imbue himself with the sense of it. He thought it was probably working. 

“You mean you have his schedule memorized,” Margo said. “And it damn well looks like he knows your schedule, too.”

“Like a high school crush,” Kady said, laughing. Margo cackled. He hated when they got like this. It was futile to fight back, so he just ignored them. He suppressed the little frisson of delight he got when he thought about Quentin memorizing Eliot’s schedule. It was… not a thing. That’s not what was happening.

“Oh yeah. Eliot shows up there and is all nonchalant, keeps sitting down near Quentin, and Quentin turns bright pink. I should have been going there all this time. It’s like a fuckin’ sitcom couple where neither person can get their shit together. Fucking high quality entertainment.” Margo was cackling hard, but she was petting the back of his neck. He wouldn’t throw her off of the chair. For now. 

“Seriously, I’ll do whatever you want if you take him out,” Kady said, fixing him with a deliberately frightening look that usually made him capitulate to whatever she was asking. Not this time, foul witch.

“You don’t really have what I’m looking for in a sexual partner, darling. I’m afraid it’s a bum deal for me. Plus, I still don’t fully understand why I need to do this and what your involvement is.”

“You didn’t tell him, Kady?” Margo propped herself on the arm of the sofa, leaning against Eliot. 

“I figured it wasn’t relevant since he was halfway down that guy’s throat Saturday night. They were talking about _Harry Potter_ for a fucking hour.”

“Forty minutes at most. It certainly wasn’t an hour,” Eliot said. “And what didn’t you tell me?”

“Ugh,” Kady grunted. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Julia won’t fuck her unless Quentin starts dating again,” Margo said, leaning over Eliot’s shoulder.

“Adequate summary,” Kady said. She was picking at her nails, which made Eliot shudder. He half-expected her to pull out a knife to start trimming them. Like a pirate. Maybe that's where she was going at all hours, to board ships and robe them. “Julia has some sort of deal with her roommate. They’re recovering from relationship trauma or something.” 

Margo’s hand rested against his collar, which felt grounding in the midst of this thoroughly ridiculous conversation. “And that pussy is so good—or wait, you _imagine_ it is—that you need Eliot to take Quentin on a date and maybe tickle his feathers while he’s at it?” 

Kady shrugged. “Yeah, that’s about right.”

Eliot flipped through the play one more time while Kady and Margo engaged in some sort of silent conversation of facial expressions and gestures he was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to notice. He sighed and tossed the book on the coffee table. _The Tempest_ could wait. “Out with it,” he said. 

“You like this boy,” Margo said. 

“He’s reasonably attractive, ridiculously nerdy, and a total disaster.” 

“Uh huh. You just described your own secret wet dream, El.” Margo brushed her fingers into the curls at the back of his head. Her nails scratched against his scalp. It was a distraction technique she often employed when she wanted something, but Eliot wasn’t complaining. He leaned back into her hand. 

“And if you get him to go out with you—” Kady started.

“The boy says he doesn’t date,” Eliot said. “And he wasn’t looking for a quick fuck. He shot me down thoroughly. I’ve since moved on.”

“You’ve seen him at the coffee shop three times this week. On Friday, I _saw you_ sitting with him,” Margo said. “You got his number, didn’t you?

“No.” _Yes._ He’d finally gotten it out of Quentin when he’d promised him a dirty chai latte and a scone he definitely couldn’t afford. It was obvious and appalling and not at all Eliot’s style. But Quentin had blushed for a solid five minutes after he’d managed to type his number in Eliot’s phone, so it was absolutely worth it.

“You need to ask him out,” Kady said. She took a beer from out of nowhere and opened it with a stray lighter. 

“I need to do nothing of the sort. Quentin and I are _friends_. Tenuously. I made my seduction attempt, and I’m not inclined to do it again.” 

“I’m in charge of the Queer Grad Union prom,” Kady said, taking a sip of her vile beverage. “I want to take someone with me so it’s not completely heinous. And I really fucking like Julia, okay?”

“How the fuck did you get put in charge of that?” Margo asked. 

Kady sighed. “No one else was up to it. I didn’t go to my own fucking prom. Not that I wanted to. But a lot of us didn’t get to go. Or we went without a real date. You know?”

Eliot hummed, nodding a little. He couldn’t argue that point, though he had no use for grad school activity groups, be they gay or no. He was queer enough on his own. He didn’t need a group to affirm it. And he certainly didn’t need to stomach prom all over again. He had taken Matilda Bishop to his senior prom, but he wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all Matilda. He’d given her twin brother—Matthew (?)—a blow job in the parking lot and left Matilda to fend for herself with her group of sheep-wrangling 4-H friends. All in all, it had been a good night, and Matilda and Matt (?) had let him crash in their basement for the night so he _didn’t_ have to go home and hear any shit from his dad. He wore a tragically bright green tuxedo and he’d deleted every picture within a month of graduation. He’d come to New York with a clean slate a month later, leaving all traces of green tuxedo-wearing Eliot behind. 

“It’s cute,” Margo said, still petting at Eliot’s curls. “She wants to have a girlfriend to take to _prom_. I fucking love it. It’s deliciously retro with a gay twist, which is basically our whole aesthetic, El.”

Eliot couldn’t help but grin. Fair enough. “I admit. It’s sweet. Kady is absolutely the _sweetest_. And she’s in _love_.”

“Ugh. Gross. I hate both of you,” Kady said. “It’s a big grad school event. I’m organizing it. I… like Julia. I’m being fucking _vulnerable_ here. Help a bitch out.”

Margo snickered. “Just ask the boy to have dinner or come over for a fuck. I don’t know. Whatever he’s into. Do that.” 

“Why _me_?” Eliot looked between Kady and Margo, who were both silent again, doing something with their whole nonverbal communication thing. “I’m not doing a goddamn thing, period. But I’m especially not doing it if you sit here looking at each other like you’re practicing gay telepathy.”

“Kady thinks he might actually say yes. If you _actually_ ask him out instead of offering him your dick.”

“He already said ‘no.’ And I’m no longer interested.”

Margo scoffed. “Yeah the fucking fuck right. You are _definitely_ still interested. You sent that Jason kid home after Quentin left.”

“Who?” Eliot knit his eyebrows, trying to remember if there was a Jason at the party that night. 

“Kit,” Kady supplied, rolling her eyes and groaning. 

“Oh, fuck. Yeah. That guy.” Eliot shrugged. “I was tired.”

“Bullshit,” Margo said. “You’d been talking about fucking him since he got the part.”

“Changing winds,” Eliot said. “I can’t be expected to keep tabs on who I want to fuck.”

“Changing winds in the form of a shy, floppy-haired nerd radiating ‘please fuck me, Daddy’ energy from his big brown eyes.” Margo wrapped her arms around Eliot’s neck and put her head on his shoulder. “You wanna take him on a date, listen to him talk about Derrida and _The Hobbit_ , then fuck him senseless while he thanks you for it.”

Honestly, hm. That didn’t sound so bad. But.

“Absolutely not. I asked him to stay over. He said no. We’re all moving on from it. Kady can get her girlfriend some other way. Find some hapless dork who’s into literature or whatever, get him to date Quentin, and leave me out of it. I’m… friends with Quentin. More or less. No need to complicate the issue. He’ll forget about me in a few weeks, so—”

Kady took a few gulps of her beer, eyeing Eliot as she drank. “He doesn’t want some dork. He likes _you_. I have it on good authority. He’s just anti-dating. You could get him over the hurdle.”

Eliot raised an eyebrow. On ‘good authority.’ Sounded like a scam. “He might like me as a random person at a party. But not in any other way. The poor dear might even be straight.”

Kady laughed. “How do you figure? Was it the way he was eye-fucking you and following you around like a lost puppy?”

“It’s probably from the way he leaned into every touch like a cat, practically moaning Eliot’s name and begging for his dick,” Margo added.

“God, I hate both of you. Let me break it down for you—”

“Okay Eliot ‘Let me mansplain dating for you’ Waugh.” Kady laughed. “Please break it down for me so I can understand. My stupid woman brain just can’t—”

“Stop it—I said—let me explain why I’m definitely not doing this. One. Quentin _turned me down_. Already. I’m not going there again. I am also… exploring a starving artiste look, which means I don’t have the means to take anyone on a date. Unless it’s to the goat farm in Upstate New York where I’ll be working come December. I need to find a new job, not date a Quentin, and I'm literally only qualified to suck dick or care for ruminants.” 

Margo groaned. “Go to the park. Get him to buy you a bagel.”

“Why are _you_ in on this? This is Kady’s thing, Bambi. Let me tell Kady off, okay? Sometimes I doubt your loyalty.”

“I’ve been trying to get you to ask him out for nearly two months. Thought I’d board the next frustration train as it pulls into the station.” Margo popped a kiss on his cheek. “I think your crush on the little nerd is cute. He’s sweet. And kind of a tetchy little shit and totally anti-romance. It’s a good combo for you. I have every confidence that you could win him over. What’s better than coaxing an ornery, twitchy boy into bed?” 

“Coaxing his roommate into bed,” Kady said.

“Point, Kady,” Margo said. 

“I’m not doing it. I _can’t_ do it. I need to figure out a fucking way to stay in the drama program. Or I’m going to be waiting tables in Jersey or—”

“Working on a goat farm, honey. I know,” Margo said, soothing. “I know you love goats. And drama. It makes sense.”  
Eliot _hated_ goats. Their eyes. It was like they’d _seen things_.

Kady put her beer down with a loud thunk on the battered coffee table. “I’ll waive your rent for October.”

Something like hope blossomed inside of Eliot. He caught her eye to see if she was serious. “You’ll what now?”

“You get him to go out with you, I’ll pay for the date. And I’ll waive your rent. Friend helping a friend. I believe in you, man.”

“Jesus, Kady. What’s this girl’s deal? Does her pussy taste like cotton candy?”

Kady groaned. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Charming. Since when did you get an influx of money?”

“Since I started getting gigs. Performing. You know.”

“No, I really don’t know,” Eliot said. He looked at Margo, who shrugged a little. They didn’t mention Kady’s mom. That windfall had helped them secure an actual townhouse with three actual bedrooms. But the extra cash was new.

“She puts her schedule on the fridge, El. Told her she was doing a good job and shit. You know, like a motherfuckin’ housemate.”

“Maybe that’s what I should be doing,” Eliot said. “If Kady can manage it—”

“Please. You wish you were me, Waugh,” Kady said. “I can sing circles around you.”

“Fucking bullshit,” Eliot said. “We have totally different styles. Impossible to compare.”

Kady laughed. “You keep telling yourself whatever you want. Meanwhile, I can pay for your date. Or dates. And I will.”

“I’m not a charity case.”

“No, you’re not,” Kady agreed. “You know I know what it’s like to be dirt fucking poor, so this is not a charity case. It’s a fucking job. And fuck it—I’ll waive your rent no matter what next month. Get Quentin to go out with you, I’ll sweeten the deal. I’ll pay for every date. After every successful date, I’ll throw in a bonus. And extra money for gelato. Or what the fuck ever.”

“And how are you making _so much_ money?” Eliot tilted his head and wondered exactly what kind of piano bars had hired Kady. 

“I’m being wise about the gigs I take, saving my shit up, and I get a fuckton of tips. What can I say? I’m fucking magnetic, bitch.” He was waiting for the knife to appear. Any time now. She’d probably take off her shitkicker boots and start trimming her toenails on the coffee table. 

“Bully for you,” Eliot said. He wouldn’t say he _wasn’t_ jealous. Kady could sing. There was that. And he guessed she must have been in the right place at the right time, and now she was flush with cash. If she did waive his rent and give him a few incentives, he’d be in a lot better position to complete his work for the semester and not be homeless. 

“No need to pay me back. I’ll consider November too if you get him to go to prom.”

“Oh sweet Jesus,” Eliot said. “I’ve already been to one too many proms in my life.” 

“This’ll be different. Intentionally cheesy. The theme is ‘Party like It’s 1999,’” Margo said.

“What do you know about it, Bambi? I thought you hated shit like that.”

She shrugged, jostling Eliot a bit since she was still draped over him. “Fen wants to go.”

“Of course she does,” Eliot said, groaning. “So you’re going?”

“Yeah. I’m going. I’m going to be the most fabulous bitch in the room. And Fen is hot. I’m grand at events. Of course she wants to drag me to prom.”

“Doesn’t sound like she’ll be doing much dragging. You seem disturbingly enthusiastic. You as well, dear Kady.”

“So sue me. High school was shit. Might as well reclaim prom and make it actually fun,” Margo said. She raked her fingers through Eliot’s hair a little harshly.

“Ow.” 

“Oh, come on. You need a good hair tugging. Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”

“You’re just messing it up.” 

“And where are you going after this that you need your curls to be perfect? Going to go watch Quentin with his laptop?” Margo mussed his hair again.

“He’s not there right now,” Eliot said, immediately regretting that he’d said it. No, scratch that. He regretted ever moving in with Margo and Kady because he could see it—Kady smiled wolfishly and Margo squeezed his shoulders, laughing hysterically. 

“Oh. My. God. Margo was right. You’re a total stalker, Eliot. I thought she was shitting me when she said you had his schedule memorized.”

“Well, it’s five o’clock on a Thursday. I don’t see why he would be there,” Eliot said haughtily. 

“Next time you know he’s there,” Kady started.

“No, no. No. I said no.”

“You should ask him on a date. See what he says. I’ll pay your rent. I’ll give you cash to take him out. Plus extra. I’m fuckin’ flush for the first time in my life. I’ll get Julia to give me the full scoop on Quentin, and you’ll have him wrapped around your little finger in no time.”

“So to speak,” Margo added.

“Eughhh. You’re both morally reprehensible. And disgusting. And I hate both of you.”

“So you’ll ask him out, right?” Kady was now actually taking off her boots, flinging them next to the sofa in the giant pile of Kady-stuff that accumulated next to wherever she was sitting.

“God.” Eliot sighed and leaned his head back against Margo. “Fine. I can’t promise a goddamn thing. He’s very dedicated to his life as a celibate monk. My attempts at seduction will likely go unnoticed.”

“Fine, then,” Kady said. “Worth a try. I’ll get more Quentin info from Julia. I’ll even draw up a contract. I’ll pay you through Venmo. Got it?”

“Couldn’t hurt,” Eliot said. “I guess.” His stomach twisted just a little. It didn’t seem wholly honest, but now wasn’t the time to ascend to his moral high ground, if he even had one to begin with. He assured himself it _would be_ a delightful challenge to get the boy in bed, and perhaps even more of a challenge to get him on a date. It would clearly be thrilling to unwrap him and rattle him thoroughly, and Eliot did enjoy goading him on about his hyperfixations just to get him rambling. Getting Quentin to fall for him was a good way to occupy his mind and soothe his soul as he headed toward goat-farm territory. And Kady would be happy, which would make for a better living environment, which would perhaps help him stay in grad school. Maybe he’d even go to the fucking prom. 

It didn’t have to mean anything. 

No one had to get hurt. 

It was all a perfectly good idea. 

Eliot repeated the words like a mantra as he settled into the evening with Kady and Margo, as he made drinks and threw together a quick spaghetti carbonara. _It didn’t mean anything. No one would get hurt. It was a fine idea._ By the time he went to bed, he almost believed it. And when he fell asleep, it was a mere coincidence that he dreamed of Quentin lecturing him on subtext in some fantasy novel while Eliot gazed at him sweetly and gathered him into his arms. 

The next morning, Eliot shook off the haze of his Quentin dream and took out his phone. 

Kady had drawn a quasi-official looking contract outlining terms. Prom success included November rent and an extra five hundred dollars. Fuck. He looked up at the ceiling, his stomach flipping. But he signed it. Kady had put up with his sad-broke-Eliot shit for a long time. She kept him fed. Now she’d be keeping him housed. A woman with money to throw around was a dangerous thing.

He signed the contract, saved it as a PDF, and sent it back to her. Fuck his life. Maybe he’d get a cute boy out of it. A night or two with Quentin would lift his mood. And Quentin didn’t have to be Mike. He _wasn’t_ Mike.

Eliot opened his messages.

**Eliot:** Meet for coffee this afternoon? Need 2 read for my seminar. Could use some input.

After his shower, he returned to a text notification.

**Quentin:** fine. 2pm. :)

If he was a little buoyant, a bit more joyous than usual, it was just the side effect of having a little more time to stay in grad school. A plan for it at least. He started flipping through job ads, and he let himself think about Quentin. Just a little.


	8. But be thou arm'd for some unhappy words.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin boards the anxiety treadmill. Eliot fondles a chair.

~Quentin~

Quentin was pacing. He turned the music up. Julia called it his depressing think-piece music. But goddammit, sometimes he needed to listen to ‘Bloodbuzz Ohio’ at full volume and fucking pace the floor. He hadn’t gotten into sad Taylor Swift yet. That was good, at least.

His hair was wet. He should dry it. No. He didn’t want to look like he put in, like, too much effort. But. The back of his shirt was wet. He should change it. There was the shirt that Julia had gotten him for Christmas that was like, striped, but well. Quentin liked things to fit just a little loose, and this was tight against his… everything. 

“Fuck it.” Quentin opened his closet door in a rush, nearly hitting himself in the face. “Shit. Jesus—fuck. Where’s that fucking shirt?”

There was a soft knock at his door, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. “Q? What are you doing in there?”

“Fuck—nothing!” He pulled a shirt haphazardly out of his closet, and five more shirts followed, all toppling to the floor. 

“Can I come in?”

“Fine. Yes. Jesus.”

Julia pulled the door open slowly and tiptoed in like she was afraid to rock Quentin’s mental boat. He _hated_ it when she did this shit. “You’re listening to High Violet on repeat. Are you okay?”

“God. Yes. I’m fucking… fine. Who doesn’t like The National? I just need to find a shirt to wear.”

“I mean. It’s your anxiety treadmill music.”

“That’s a new one. Very descriptive.” He glared at her. “It’s complex and poetic—”

“Why are you trying to pick out a shirt?” Julia had the ghost of a smile on her face now that she saw Quentin wasn’t having an actual meltdown. He could see the wheels turning in her head.

Oh, God. He didn’t want to do this. He really fucking didn’t want to. Julia would be so goddamn smug. And he hated smug Julia. And besides, this wasn’t a date. It wasn’t going to be a date. Quentin wasn’t dating right now. Or hooking up with anyone. He knew how both of those things ended, thank you very much. And he wasn’t going there again. He was going to the coffee shop to work, and he’d be in Eliot’s general vicinity while he was doing it. And he might provide some commentary on _Doctor Faustus_. Eliot had told him he just didn’t groove with Marlowe the same way he did with Shakespeare. Which, fair. Honestly, he just wasn’t on the same level as Shakespeare, no matter what some self-important drama historians would have people fucking believe. But Quentin knew the play. He could help Eliot think of some shit to say about it for the Renaissance drama course he had to take. 

And how had this not-date come to be? Eliot _kept_ showing up at the same time every day, sitting down next to him, and Quentin couldn’t keep his eyes off of Eliot’s hands as he flipped through the pages of his textbooks. Because he asked Eliot which playwright was his favorite (apart from Shakespeare). Because he listened to Eliot ramble about his boring professor and the theater dicks in his class. And here was the result—Quentin was pathetic and basically _giddy_ that Eliot had asked for his number. And he’d agreed oh so enthusiastically when Eliot had asked for his help. But it _still_ wasn’t a date.

“Quentin. You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling,” he huffed. “I’m just—I just don’t have anything to wear.”

“For _what_ , Q? Tell me. I can help.”

He groaned. “I’m meeting Eliot at the coffee shop.”

“Ohhh. Well. I see. You didn’t tell me you and Eliot were meeting intentionally now. I thought you kept running into each other while both trying to appear very unintentional.”

“Okay, this is why I didn’t tell you—”

“Is this a date?”

“No,” Quentin said, petulant. “Not everything is a date, Julia.” God, that didn’t even make sense. Of course everything wasn’t a date. His brain got fucked up and confused when Julia inserted herself into situations that he, a twenty-five-year old human man, should be able to tolerate on his own. 

She held her hand up to her mouth like she was yawning—a poor excuse for her to stifle a laugh. “Okay. I get it. You’re not dating. You never will. So I won’t either.”

“Oh fuck me. Don’t _start_.”

“So bitchy. Has it occurred to you that I’m still pretty fucking nervous about dating, Q? I’m not just being a dick.”

He sighed. “I know.” Despite his praises of Julia’s dating skills, she’d encountered some pretty fucking rough patches with trauma to spare.

“And you look cute right now, exactly as you are.” 

He looked at her with mournful eyes. “No I don’t.” Anguish poured through Quentin in hot waves. He kicked at his closet and stubbed his toe in the process. “Fuck!”

“I thought you didn’t like him.”

“I never said I didn’t like him, Jules,” Quentin said, a little sharper than strictly necessary. “And it’s definitely not a date. Just repeating that. In case you find that confusing.”

“God, why did I ever move in with you?” 

“Your idea,” he huffed. He tapped his foot, staring at his closet and trying to will it to provide something acceptable. His eyes darted over to Julia. She was smiling, hands on her hips, waiting. “Fine. Help.”

“Help what?”

“Help, please. Julia. I know you want to. So maybe you just… fucking should.” He knitted his brows. If she was going to be obnoxious, at least she could be _useful_.

She laughed. “Fine, fine. I’ll help you. Just stop being an asshole.”

“Okay, okay. Sorry.” His tone was a bit pricklier than intended, but Julia was used to him. And besides, she was the one being a dick about whatever dating shit she had percolating in her brain. He stepped back from his closet and gestured at it, breathing a secret sigh of relief that he wouldn’t have to figure this out by himself. It might result in his being teased relentlessly for the next five forevers, but so be it. He had no idea what the fuck he was doing.

“Let me see. That shirt I gave you—”

“Yeah. Can’t find it.” He crossed his arms and kept tapping his foot, watching Julia as she thumbed through the shirts in his closet. 

“Oooh, you were actually considering wearing something that fits. More evidence that this is _actually_ a date.”

“Does that mean you’re going to ask Kady out?”

“Nope. Not yet.”

“Then I guess it’s not an official date, is it? So, you can knock it off with the teasing.”

“So you don’t want my help?”

“I didn’t say that,” Quentin grumbled. 

“Here it is. You’ve worn this… what? Like once. I’d say I’m offended, but I know your preference for worn flannel. But… Eliot will like this. Show yourself off a little, huh? And these—dark wash jeans. Wear a French tuck with it and this belt.”

“A _belt_?” 

“Yes, you heathen. Wearing a shirt tucked in, a belt, jeans that don’t sag. Boots. It’ll be revolutionary. No one will expect it. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Uh.” He watched as Julia laid everything out neatly on his bed. A shirt she’d gotten him. Jeans she’d also gotten him. He looked over at Julia, who was smiling wickedly. “Thank you. Seriously. I’m terrible with this stuff.”

“That’s why you keep me around.”

“Not the only reason. I love you, you know. I know you, like. Want me to be happy. And—and, I’m not good at that. Or like, dressing myself. But. I want you to be happy, too. That’s why I push you on—you know. All the dating stuff. We don’t have to do everything together.”

“I know,” she said. She looked like she might want to say something else, but she just patted his arm and left him to the outfit she’d prepared. 

After the door closed, he yelled after her, a little frantic. “What the hell is a French tuck?”

“Google it, Q!” 

He heard her footsteps carrying her away and out the door for her afternoon classes. Heart beating wildly, he shimmied into the jeans—tight but like, stretchier and more comfortable than he’d been expecting. The shirt was—well. It wasn’t quite what Quentin would normally choose. But he had to admit, it did look better than a shapeless sweater. And even if it _wasn’t_ a date, he felt like… well, he wanted Eliot to see the best side of him. They were… sort of friends. And incidentally, Eliot had been a featured performer in Quentin’s sex dreams for a long time now. And his pre-coffee morning fantasies. And his shower thoughts. And possibly afternoon daydreams when he was home by himself and Julia couldn’t hear him— _well._ Anyway. 

Quentin looked—semi-decent. Like someone who had an informed opinion on Christopher Marlowe. Nothing more than that. Because they weren’t fucking dating. And they wouldn’t be. Quentin wasn’t going to waste his time getting his heart ripped to shreds again—especially not by someone like Eliot, who looked like he ate boys for lunch and spat them out in pieces. Better to keep things like they were. Just. Friends. He slung his messenger bag over his shoulder and headed out to The Cinnamon Roll.

~~***~~

As soon as Quentin took a sip of his latte, he ended up spilling a dribble on his shirt. “Shit. Fucking. Shit.”

He put his bag down and ended up nearly dropping his scone in the process since he didn’t put down his latte, and he really should have. It would be just fucking peachy to be covered in coffee and sugar when Eliot arrived. He took a breath and put his coffee and scone down on the table by his favorite chair. He stumbled up to the counter and got the attention of the barista—the one who was always making fuck-me eyes at Eliot. The one Eliot winked at and flirted with. Fuck this guy. “I. Uh. Ice? Can I have some ice? And a napkin?”

“Napkins are over there.” The barista nodded at the little counter with the cream and sugar. Yeah, there were fucking napkins. 

“Ice?”

“Hold on a sec. You did buy something, right?”

Quentin rolled his eyes and suppressed a growl. “Seriously? You literally just took my order.”

The guy looked at him blankly for a few seconds before turning away and scooping some ice into a cup. When the barista turned back around holding a cup of ice for Quentin, he lit up, his smile lifting his whole face. For a second, Quentin thought it might be for him, which was, well that was just too weird. But. He felt a warm, big hand on his shoulder and immediately went still. Of fucking course, he was smiling at Eliot. Because Eliot was here. “Quentin, I think he has something for you.”

Quentin grabbed the cup of ice and twisted awkwardly to see Eliot standing about four inches closer to him than was totally appropriate. Eliot was wearing one of his too-formal-for-anything ensembles that made him look like a minor English nobleman cavorting about the city for the day—a violet-hued button down with a pattern that looked like waves, a royal blue vest with silver stitching, and black jeans cuffed at the ankles over soft black boots. Jesus Christ. Quentin thought he might crumble into the floor. “Uh. Hi. I—coffee. On my shirt. Ice.”

Eliot looked Quentin up and down, his eyes lingering on the open buttons at his neck, resting on his mouth a moment before meeting his eyes. “Here, let me.”

Before Quentin realized what was happening, Eliot had taken the cup of ice from his hands and grabbed a napkin from the counter. He plucked the fabric of Quentin’s shirt between his fingers and gently pressed a piece of ice to the coffee stain, dabbing it with the napkin. He was so close that Quentin could smell his cologne—something like cedar and maybe cinnamon—and whatever tropical-scented product he used to keep his curls so obnoxiously perfect. Quentin met Eliot’s eyes, which looked a deep forest green today. He suppressed a shiver as Eliot dabbed again at the spot. Hot breath hit Quentin’s cheek. 

“Um, thanks for helping. I think it’ll come out. My roommate knows, you know, how to do stuff like this. So you don’t have to uh. Keep.” Quentin gulped. He was rooted to the spot, eyes fixed on Eliot’s hands working away at the stain. He had the nearly unmanageable urge to rest his head against Eliot’s shoulder, see how well he might fit there.

“Nonsense. You want to get these things early before they set. Plus, this is a new shirt, isn’t it? It looks good. You should wear it more often.” Eliot patted his chest lightly before renewing his work with a second piece of ice. Quentin’s vision went fuzzy around the edges; Eliot was _touching him_ , so close he could get a hand on his tie, pull him in and put his lips against Eliot’s neck. “And you shouldn’t make Julia do anything to your shirts, you know.”

“Huh? I’m not. I don’t. I do my own laundry. Jesus.” Quentin’s cheeks felt like they’d been slapped, and a thrumming buzz ran beneath his skin, stemming from the places Eliot’s fingers brushed against him. Eliot was rubbing vigorously at his shirt in the middle of a crowded coffee shop, his hip butting up against Quentin’s, lips inches from Quentin’s face. Well. His forehead, like, the top part of his face because Eliot was so fucking gorgeously _tall_. He half-considered taking the cup of ice and dumping it on his head to snap him out of his Eliot-induced haze. “I think it’s—I think it’s good. The stain. It’s fine.”

“If you say so.” Eliot met his eyes for a second and put his hand on Quentin’s arm, stroking his thumb once over Quentin’s bicep. Quentin swallowed hard. “I’m going to get a coffee. You need anything else?”

“I. No. I don’t. I’ll set up over where—you know—chairs. By the window.”

Eliot smiled, like Quentin was doing something _cute_ , which made Quentin feel more embarrassed, if that was even possible. He hunched his shoulders and made a beeline for the velour-covered chairs that he liked so much. He sat with his knees tucked up under his hips, looking back through a few notes he’d saved on Marlowe. He nibbled at his scone, brushing the crumbs away absently. He saw Eliot take the seat next to his out of the corner of his eye—long legs stretched out and butting up against the table in front of them. It was distracting.

“So. Uh. Christopher Marlowe,” Quentin started, attempting to establish eye contact with Eliot, despite the blood rushing in his ears.

“Hm?” Eliot’s eyes darted over Quentin’s body again. Quentin squirmed in his chair and tried to think about what exactly he was going to say about fucking _Doctor Faustus_. It wasn’t like people _didn’t_ check Quentin out. It was like, a part of being human. He didn’t understand why he, like, specifically, ever warranted anyone’s attention. And Eliot—it was unbelievable to him, really. Eliot was just sitting there, one mile-long leg crossed over the other, fixing him with a deliberately intense gaze, body angled toward Quentin like he was some fascinating creature. Quentin half-expected that he was the butt of some kind of practical joke, or the subject of a forced-fake-relationship in a teen romantic comedy. Not even Eliot would be that shitty, though. So. He just tucked that away in a corner of his mind, and he went with the most reasonable explanation: he was a diversion for Eliot. An amusement. And when Eliot inevitably lost interest, maybe they’d still be friends and they could meet here and talk about Shakespeare in the Park and Hamilton, go check out whatever art exhibit was going on at MoMA. That felt a lot more important to Quentin than sacrificing his heart for the sake of some good dick. He was pretty sure it would be _really good dick_ , but still. Quentin didn’t want to be on the back end of a breakup, eating Chinese takeout, wrapped up in his bed, rewatching all of ‘Six Feet Under’ and sobbing into Julia’s armpit. Not like, again. He’d done it once already this year, and yeah, no. Not a good look.

And the whole hooking up thing? He’d done that, too. And it hadn’t gotten him what he wanted.

“Faustus? The—uh—play? You know.”

“Oh yes. I know. I was just… thinking about something else.” Eliot’s eyes went to his lips again. Quentin’s stomach flipped. “I do like that shirt. It fits.”

Quentin’s ears were fucking hot. He put his coffee down and squirmed in the chair. Eliot’s golden-green eyes were fixed on him, fiery and wanting. Fuck. Maybe it _wasn’t_ a good idea to be friends with him? Not if he was going to go all bedroom eyes at Quentin in the middle of a family-friendly coffee shop. There were _children_ here, for fuck’s sake. Not, like, exactly right now. But. Quentin couldn’t have these kinds of thoughts and be a productive human. Because his thoughts had gone from PG, _er_ PG-13 anyway, to like an unrated, not-allowed-in-movie-theaters, sued-for-indecency kind of thing. Eliot just _looked_ like he was fucking excellent in bed, like he wasn’t complacent about his looks like a lot of guys were. He had the aura of someone who prided himself on giving pleasure and—well, Quentin needed to _stop_ right now, or he was going to have an embarrassing situation. “So, what do you need help with?”

Eliot’s eyes drifted to Quentin’s legs; it was clear he wasn’t really paying attention. Quentin squirmed, feeling quite a lot like an animal stuck in a trap. “Hm. I was thinking maybe we could take a walk instead?”

“I—uh.” Quentin cleared his throat. He could do studying. He could easily bury himself behind his notes on Christopher Marlowe. But Eliot’s gaze hadn’t left him, his expression expectant and mischievous, like he was daring Quentin to refuse. Quentin hated his fucking lizard brain for supplying the image of Eliot reclined in bed, artfully draped in white sheets, that same look in his eyes. _I have a big bed_ , he’d said. God, Quentin would never forget the sound of those words on Eliot’s lips, the salacious tone of his voice. “Um. I thought. You needed to study.”

A smile lit up Eliot’s illegally beautiful face, eyes twinkling. “Lies. I don’t have to do anything with that bore of a play until next week. I thought you might refuse if I just flat out asked you to get coffee. Might sound too much like a _date_ , and you don’t _date_. I feel like I remember you telling me that. As a matter of fact, it’s seared in my brain.” Eliot tapped his chin like he was considering what to say next. Quentin slid down in his chair, aware that his ears suddenly felt very hot. He had figured he and Eliot were beyond this. “So, I thought I’d ask you to take a stroll. A friendly stroll. With me.”

“Um. Eliot. I spent an hour last night looking through garbage about Faustus.” Quentin was trying to sound irritated, but his attention was split between being annoyed with Eliot and wanting to follow him wherever he went, like a puppy hoping for a treat. 

“And for that, I am grateful. You can tell me all about it next week when I take you to dinner.”

Quentin blanched. “I’m um. Not. Going to dinner with you. It’s—it’s—really not—like.” He chewed on his lip. He wanted to tell Eliot it wasn’t a good idea, that it was too much, that Quentin could see himself getting hurt. He’d want too much, too fast. He had a problem with depression. With anxiety. His brain didn’t work. Especially not with things like this. He’d get so invested so quickly—he just couldn’t do it to himself, not after Alice. And Quentin’s ensuing poor decisions.

“As friends. Dinner as friends. We’re friends, aren’t we?” Eliot was running his fingers over the arm of the chair, practically fondling it. He’d rolled up his shirtsleeves after attacking Quentin’s shirt with the ice, and Quentin was staring at his slender wrists, the dark hair scattered lightly over his pale skin, the way his muscles moved as he ran his hand over the velour fabric. 

“Uh. Yeah? I just don’t think—”

“Nonsense. If you don’t want dinner, then we could have drinks. There’s this quaint speakeasy style bar near my place. Low lights, absinthe, 1920s themed cocktail names.” Eliot ran his tongue over his teeth. “They play a lot of pretentious jazz. You’d love it.”

Quentin gripped at his jeans, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. He’d pinch himself to fucking snap out of the fantasy of Eliot taking him home and fucking him senseless, but it would be too obvious. “Hm. That is. Tempting?” Why couldn’t he talk like a normal human? “But it’s still not. Not a. Not a good idea.”

Confusion—and maybe something like disappointment, but Quentin was probably projecting—swept over Eliot’s features before he cleared his face back to its neutral expression. “Well, I’ll try not to be too mortally offended. Though I may have to go home and lick my wounds.”

Quentin couldn’t let his mind wander to Eliot’s tongue licking anything. “I mean. It’s not about you. It’s. Me. I’m not ready to—”

“I said it wasn’t a date.”

“You didn’t say that. Like. Specifically.” Quentin shifted in the chair, attempting to look away from Eliot, but he was locked on, lost in the details of Eliot’s face—the slight crookedness of his nose, his wide eyes that looked almost innocent when he was thinking, the long eyelashes and the smudge of deep green eyeliner on his lower lash line. And his lips. Fuck. His lips looked like they were out of a catalog at a plastic surgeon’s office. _Doctor, please make my lips look like this—full on top and on the bottom, sultry and sexy and that exact shade of pink._ He was— _God_ —better than he was in Quentin’s dreams. And he was _really_ good there. Really good, Jesus. Quentin had woken up panting this morning after dreaming about—well, it was nonspecific, but it featured Eliot’s lips like, _prominently_ and the catalog of things they could do. And Quentin liked how sometimes, like today, he was smooth and clean-shaven, and sometimes there was a layer of scruff. It had been a long time since he’d felt that kind of roughness against his skin. He kind of wanted Eliot to fuck up his thighs with all that stubble, make him red and sore so he could feel it the next day.

Quentin took a deep breath.

“Not specifically. So. It’s not a date. Will you have dinner with me?”

“Uh—Eliot. No. I’m—no. Again. No. I’m not, uh. I’m just not.” Why was he saying ‘no’ again? He closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath, not caring if he looked like a total idiot in the middle of The Cinnamon Roll, right in front of Eliot. _Chinese takeout. Six Feet Under. Julia’s armpit. Bad decisions. Major depressive episode. Failing out of school. Losing his grant money. Losing his home. Having to move in with his dad. Or worse. His mom. Or—Jesus—check into a mental health facility and do art therapy with fucking crayons and Crayola watercolors._ And maybe—maybe—it wouldn’t happen this time. Maybe he was on the right combination of meds; maybe his current therapist could see him through it. But he just couldn’t even skirt the edges of that particular brand of insanity. He couldn’t do it to himself. He couldn’t do it to _Julia_. He could look at Eliot and know, just _know_ , that he was trouble. He could fantasize all day. And he really did. Like, a _lot_ of fantasizing about Eliot, specifically. He could add stubble burn on his thighs to the ever-expanding list of Eliot-specific kinks.

“No walk?” Eliot asked. When Quentin opened his eyes, he thought he saw a hint of disappointment on Eliot’s face, but it washed away quickly. 

“I didn’t say. I mean. A walk would be nice.” Quentin tucked his hair behind his ear, ducking his head a little. His heart was pounding wildly under the heat of Eliot’s attention. “I’m just not ready for anything… even, like, dating adjacent.”

“I get it. Let me know if you are.” Eliot stood, coffee in hand. “I’m going to an audition across from Morningside Park. Walk me there?”

Quentin smiled. He quite liked Morningside. It’s where he liked to go on rough days. But he thought if he had a walk with Eliot, today would be… not rough at all. He didn’t need to have anything like dating on the table if he just wanted to enjoy someone. And he enjoyed Eliot not only for his frankly ridiculous hotness, but also for his strange charm, the biting humor that slipped out when he wasn’t being coquettish, the way he noticed the colors of things and stopped to take pictures when something was particularly pleasing to the eye, his encyclopedic knowledge around theater and costuming, the way he listened when Quentin talked about literature, asked him more about the books he loved, the stories he was planning to write...

He followed Eliot, and the door shut behind them with a jingle. Eliot turned to him. “There’s a party this Saturday. I’d like to invite you to it. Really—just as a friend.”

“Yeah,” Quentin said, looking up into the depths of Eliot’s changing eyes. “I’d like that.”

This was better, wasn’t it, than the drama of dating or hooking up? Worlds better. Like maybe, really, he wouldn’t have such a problem with either the dating or hooking up if Eliot wasn’t so _Eliot_. If he was, somehow, less… everything.

So this was good. The best outcome. Friendship didn’t have an inevitable end to it. So he thought, maybe, this was good.


	9. Think you a little din can daunt mine ears?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot shares a drink with Jules.

~Eliot~ 

“Your girlfriend is here, Kady.” Eliot looked through the peephole at a very short woman with hair not quite as big as Kady’s. _Julia_. She was early for the party, and she was _alone_. Yawn. He didn’t feel the need to let her in. After all, she hadn’t seen him.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Kady called from her room. “Aren’t you going to let her in, dickwad?”

“Hm. She’s expecting you—not me. I’d hate to disappoint the poor child. Looking for the woman she’s not-dating.” Bizarre, both Julia and Quentin. They were just so odd. And Quentin wasn’t here with Julia. The sun was barely down, and the party was ostensibly starting at nine, so he really _shouldn’t_ be here yet. Maybe Julia had come on her own after her yoga or whatever tedious activity she did on Saturday afternoons? And while that shouldn’t be concerning, it definitely _was_. 

Eliot pulled out his phone and checked to see if Quentin had texted. Nothing since last night when they’d exchanged some flirtatious—but not _indecent_ —texts. To be perfectly honest, Quentin was a bit of a texting whore—both more eloquent and self-assured over text. Eliot found that hidden confidence lowkey _sexy_. He smiled, scrolling through the texts—they’d discussed some of the more salacious bits of Shakespeare over the past several days. Overlapping interests, a revolutionary idea. Normally, Eliot didn’t give a fuck about that sort of thing. But it felt… _right_ that he and Quentin had just a little bit in common. He might have jerked off about it a few times. Really, that was normal. Par for the course. To be expected in situations such as these.

He propped himself up on the sofa and watched, bored, as Kady stomped out of her room in what Eliot liked to think of as her house combat boots. Some people had house slippers (Eliot did because he wasn’t a _heathen_ ), and Kady Orloff-Diaz had relatively clean shit-kicker boots that she liked to wear around the house because her ‘feet got cold.’ Eliot had _offered_ to get her a pair of faux-leather vegan slippers with velour insoles from his connection at Nordstrom (an ex who ‘collected’ a lot of things that ‘fell off the truck’), but Kady had sneered at him and rolled her eyes. He’d had the thought that if he were a lesbian, he’d definitely be in trouble. There was something weirdly appealing, in a way he’d never admit aloud, about Kady’s fuck-you attitude and her grungy-hair-band-sex look. Good thing he definitely _wasn’t_ a lesbian, last he’d checked. 

Kady, irritatingly, was farther along with Julia than he was with Quentin. Julia was all prim and proper and buttoned up—from what he could tell—but she basically lived at their house after her constitutional law classes or whatever atrociously boring thing she was studying. And Quentin… Quentin had seemed so _easy_. In all the times Eliot had encountered him at The Cinnamon Roll, he’d never thought, _Oh, that boy would be so hard to get._ He’d thought plenty of things about Quentin, chief among them that he shouldn’t _try_ because, if Quentin wasn’t straight, Quentin would be _too invested_ , too emotional, too big-eyed and cute and caught up in feelings. It would have been easier if Quentin was straight. That would have made Eliot feel infinitely better about not currently having Quentin curled up on his lap, rambling about Fillory and brushing against his dick. As it was, Quentin was queer as _hell_ , and he made a point of rejecting Eliot whenever they were within ten feet of each other, all the while sending vaguely flirty texts and looking like a delectable, tempting little snack in his increasingly form-fitting stretchy jeans (thank you, Julia) and his black t-shirts. A Quentin-sized snack. Eliot could tuck him just under his chin—he was exactly the right height.

This explained Eliot’s ever-increasing desire to _actually_ seduce Quentin and show him exactly what he was missing. It wasn’t that Eliot didn’t like taking no for an answer. That was a contemptible trait in any human, Eliot thought. He’d heard ‘no’ before, certainly. (He’d heard, ‘ _Oh, Eliot, yes yes yes_ far more times than he’d heard ‘no,’ but that was beside the point.) It was more that Quentin blushed so prettily when Eliot looked at him _just so_. His fingers twitched whenever Eliot said something even slightly salacious. And he always leaned into Eliot’s space, eyes wide and lips parted. Quentin’s mouth gave Eliot thoughts that wouldn’t be acceptable in polite company. He was just so _tempting_ , and Eliot was sure that Quentin was secretly slutty. Eliot wanted to test that theory. That was really the crux of it. And Quentin hadn’t said he didn’t _want_ to fuck Eliot. He’d recounted a vague, mumbling rule about not dating and the incomprehensible deal with Julia that somehow affected Kady. And every time he did it, Eliot only wanted him _more_. He wanted to hear Quentin panting in his ear, moaning his name, begging for Eliot’s—

“Hey, Eliot,” Julia said sweetly.

Eliot lifted an eyebrow at the small woman in question, her arm slipped around Kady’s waist already. Not dating, his ass. Come the fuck on. No one was that stupid. 

“Julia.” He nodded at her and gave a clipped little smile. He didn’t exactly _blame her_ for Quentin’s refusal to hop on the Eliot Waugh train to pleasure town, but he’d gotten the inkling that Julia somehow made Quentin less confident when she was around. He’d mentioned offhand that he’d had a crush on Julia in his younger years, and that he’d realized over time that it wasn’t just that she was beautiful (she was—Eliot wasn’t blind); it was more that she was so competent, so capable, so vastly powerful at everything she tried. Quentin had been living in her shadow. He’d put himself there, perhaps thinking he’d be protected. Certainly, they were utterly devoted to each other, much like the dynamic in his stronger-than-family relationship with Margo. But there were never any shadows when it came to Eliot-and-Margo. They just helped each other shine. Quentin needed more of that, Eliot thought. (And a really good _dicking._ )

In Eliot’s more rational moments, he remembered that this whole dating thing was fake, a favor for Kady. And he’d remind himself that _he_ didn’t want anything that looked like a relationship, either. Especially when he was still broke, despite Kady’s help, and he was about to be in the hole another few hundred dollars since he’d stupidly volunteered to upgrade the costumes for _The Tempest._

Eliot got up and busied himself with setting up the bar for tonight’s attendees. He checked his chilled fruits in the cube refrigerator he kept on the bottom shelf of the bar-bookshelf, and he organized the alcohol by type and price, selecting his favorite gin to make a pre-party martini with at least one too many olives. Seeing Julia _sans_ Quentin had put him in a _savory_ and _sharp_ sort of mood. He checked his phone again, leaning against the bar and flicking through Quentin’s string of messages, smiling when he came across the list of ‘ten books that will change your life’ that Quentin had curated especially for him. He hadn’t gotten the books yet, but he _might_. He was thinking really hard about it. He’d been thinking more about Quentin’s velvety skin and the slick heat of his pretty mouth. But the books were definitely… somewhere on the to-do list.

“He really likes you, you know.” There was a short woman standing about a foot away from him, and it wasn’t the short woman who resided in his immediate circle of influence. It was Quentin’s short woman.

“Oh?” Eliot clicked off his phone and shoved it in his pocket. Julia didn’t need to know that he was scrolling back through the texts Quentin had sent him over the past few weeks. “Who are we talking about?”

Julia still had on that coy little smile. “You know exactly who. He’s always texting you.”

“You mean Quentin. My friend, Quentin. Your roommate. Flatmate. Whatever. I’m glad he likes me since we’re _friends_.”

“He went through a bad breakup. They’re not speaking anymore and… it was hard on him. She was… cruel. Not a terrible person, you know. Just terrible for Quentin.”

Eliot let that sink in, somewhere in the depths of Quentin Coldwater information he now stored in his soul. Not that he thought a lot about that sort of thing. He was just collecting little pieces of Quentin, like he would have with anyone. Anyone at all. “He’s mentioned a breakup. I didn’t think—I hadn’t thought it was that rough.” 

Julia nodded. “It was. Bad. He doesn’t think he’s ready to move on—”

“I don’t see what this has to do with me.”

“Look, I know about the thing with Kady. She let it slip. It’s cute.”

“She what now?” Eliot’s eyes grew wide. Kady was talking with Margo on the other side of the room, so there was no way they could save him from this awkwardness. 

“She was asking about Quentin. Like a _lot_. And she let it slip she was trying to get him to go out with you so that she could… ask me to the prom.” 

“You can count me out of the prom, FYI,” Eliot said. “I’ve had enough shamefully awkward high school experiences without adding another at age twenty-six.” He glanced at the door like Quentin might show up shortly and berate him for being morally bankrupt for taking Kady’s bribes, and then Eliot would _never_ get his chance. Not that he wanted one, not exactly. It was the principle of the thing.

“Kady said you were… wary of events you didn’t organize yourself.”

Eliot opened his mouth to object, but Kady’s statement wasn’t entirely untrue. “And you don’t think I’m a horrible person?”

Julia knitted her brows, giving him a discerning look, a once-over. “No, why would I? You just like Quentin, right? It doesn’t matter if Kady’s encouraging you or you’re asking him out on your own. He’ll eventually say yes. I swear. Just don’t get scared off in the meantime.” 

Oh. She didn’t know that Kady was _paying_ him, in essence, to seduce Quentin and ditch him. Not that he’d ditch Quentin, not immediately. He had developed a lot of plans on what he’d like to do with Quentin once he got him alone. He had an innocent-and-confused look that Eliot wanted to explore. An in-depth exploration, he might say. He looked to the side, shifty, and then met Julia’s eyes again. She was watching him—cautious, careful. He had the impression he’d rather not cross her when it came to Quentin. He wouldn’t think on that just now.

“Julia,” he said, collecting himself and settling into the placid arrogance that had become such an essential part of his persona. “I’d be delighted to make you a drink while we… discuss our mutual friend. Believe me, I don’t scare easy.” Eliot gathered the novel ingredients he’d selected for his signature cocktail of the evening—passion fruit essence, grapefruit seltzer, fresh Meyer lemons. It was good that Josh provided ingredients without question since Eliot was, as ever, super fucking broke. 

“Sure. I know whatever you make will be amazing. Q said you’re like an encyclopedia of flavor profiles.”

Eliot smiled at that. “Yes, darling. I’ve got a passion fruit Collins on tap for tonight. Quentin approved, actually.” Julia raised an eyebrow, and he cringed a bit, inwardly. That sounded like he _liked_ Quentin. He didn’t show that kind of thing to just anyone. He hadn’t even _told_ Margo he liked Quentin _all that much_. (She did plenty of assuming on her own.) God, he _didn’t_ like Quentin all that much. He was a cute boy. An especially cute boy, but just a cute boy. He did have a certain _je ne sais quoi_ that tickled a part of Eliot’s soul, or whatever, that hadn’t been touched in a long time. He was delightfully impressed when Eliot shared his extensive knowledge on cuisine and mixology. Maybe they’d delved into the subject a few times—over text, fairly frequently. A few times at the coffee shop over the past couple of weeks. It wasn’t that he had a lot to add on the subject. It was more that he said adorable things like, _‘Oh my God, how do you know so much? Did you like, take a class?’_ And of course not, Eliot hadn’t taken an extra fucking class, _outside of school_. The very thought. He’d said ‘ _Well, Quentin, there’s this thing called the internet…_ ’ And Quentin had turned the most endearing shade of red. 

And Quentin—he’d kept asking Eliot about it, like he really _cared_ what Eliot thought. He thought he’d like to take Quentin to a nice restaurant, one of the little hipster gastropubs in his neighborhood. He’d get a good red wine—a Syrah—and order roasted Brussel sprouts with bacon, gnocchi with red pepper and cream sauce, a reconstructed pecan pie or some other ridiculous dessert. He imagined himself feeding a spoonful to Quentin, wiping away a bit of whipped cream from his lip. He shivered a little when he thought of Quentin’s little pink tongue, darting out to catch the cream.

Maybe he was a little too caught up in the romanticism of his ideas, but it was a very nice image. _Very_.

Julia accepted the drink with a sly smile. “Maybe I can help out your case.”

“My case?”

“You know, getting Q to go out with you.”

“Hmm.” Eliot glanced at her as he drizzled a bit of passionfruit syrup over the ice, topping it with seltzer and a twist of lemon. He pushed it over to Julia, and she took it, smiling. “He’s been… very reluctant. I would like to—” He stopped. What was close to the truth? “—I’d like to take him out. But it doesn’t seem like—he says he doesn’t want that to happen right now. And maybe that’s the… previous relationship. Or maybe something else.” He refilled his drink—this conversation needed some alcohol poured on it. “Either way… I’m not trying to push my luck. We’re friends.” His stomach twisted slightly when he thought about how it was more complicated than that, how it was tied up in _owing Kady a favor_ , how he could really use those bonuses after getting rejected from a second commercial audition. And, more troubling, his feelings had gotten somewhat _complicated_ regarding Quentin. Regardless, he didn’t have a cent to take anyone to do anything without Kady’s assistance. It was a legitimate clusterfuck. One he didn’t feel good about. And strangely, it didn’t make him want Quentin any _less_. Just the opposite, really. 

“I just thought I’d let you in on some of the things that make Q tick.”

“Oh? Anything I wouldn’t have picked up on? More than ‘anxious, nerdy writer type with a penchant for sad indie music and, strangely, Taylor Swift’?”

Julia laughed. Her nose crinkled up. “Q is so much more than that. I swear, he’s—”

“I do know he is, darling. Quentin… continuously makes it clear he’s more than—” Eliot reached for the words. “—what he shows to the world.”

“It’s good that you see that. I think… part of the issue with his ex was that… she didn’t see him. Not fully. She wasn’t what he needed.”

“And what does dear Quentin need?” Eliot’s heart thumped, harder, perhaps, than it should have. 

“He needs someone that challenges him. Someone who sees his best self and… hm—” She looked over Eliot, appraising, like she was working something out. “—shows him how incredibly smart and kind and funny he is. He sees himself as—unwantable, unlovable.”

Something tightened in Eliot’s chest. “I’ve made it fairly clear that I don’t agree with his self-assessment.” _Too much information. She doesn’t need to know this. Shit._

She smiled, a little lopsided. “Whatever you’ve said to him, he probably doesn’t actually believe you.”

He took another swig of his drink, settling into the familiar loosening of his muscles. “I literally invited him to sleep in my bed.” Dear God, why was he telling Julia this? Either she already knew that, or she shouldn’t be privy to the information. But he’d been going over each interaction he’d had with Quentin again and again. Maybe she knew something he didn’t. And he wanted this man. God, he wanted him _so stupid much_. “I don’t know how much more obvious I can be.”

“Trust me. He’s crazy about you. This is the most… _alive_ I’ve seen him in years. He’s writing more, and not just for class. He’s eating better, sleeping more regular hours. I have an inkling that it has to do with you.”

Eliot shook his head and topped off his drink, swallowing against the lump in his throat. Something about that made him feel… super-heated inside, bubbling like magma. Accompanying the heat inside was something more easily identifiable—disbelief with a healthy dash of anxiety. “That—I don’t see how that could be true. Maybe he’s just realizing—it’s probably a coincidence. Synchronicity. Not my dashing presence alone, though I do appreciate the implication.”

Julia bit her lip, her expression a bit playful—something else, too, that Eliot didn’t quite recognize. “You know he’s had a crush on you since the day he met you? He talks about you like you hung the moon. I’ve just _recently_ learned quite a lot about Shakespeare and Marlowe and a dozen different off-broadway plays. I thought I’d escaped all that by going to law school. Apparently not.” 

“Nobody’s perfect. We can’t all be quite so refined,” Eliot said, lifting an eyebrow. He fidgeted with his beverage whisk, attempting to quell the staggering rush of emotion as it hit. He hoped that he seemed as _casual_ as he normally did. He didn’t feel casual right now; not at all. 

“Oh, I’m definitely not refined. But Q is, or at least he’s interested in all those things. He might _tell you_ he doesn’t want anyone in his life, not since he and Alice broke up, but it’s not true, not really.”

“I’m not the sort to force the issue,” Eliot said, even though he’d been working through his plan for forcing the issue over the last several hours. 

Julia shrugged. “I don’t think it’s a matter of forcing the issue. I just think—” She sipped at her drink and tapped her fingers on the bar. “—it’s more a matter of… being patient. If you like him.”

Eliot didn’t say anything. He sipped at his drink, let the thought revolve in his mind—weighing it, testing it. Being patient, making sure Quentin knew his intentions were… if not entirely pure, at least meaningful. He didn’t pull the next piece through all the way into his brain—did he _like_ Quentin? Like _that_? A purely high school way to put it, but it was a question worth considering. Another time, maybe. It simply wouldn’t do to have that sort of thing on his mind during a party. Positively uncouth. 

“So just keep talking to him,” Julia continued, like Eliot had responded in the affirmative, like he _wanted_ her to keep talking to him _about this_. But somehow, he found himself leaning in, eyes on hers, trying to read beyond the things she was telling him. “That’s what he wants more than anything. Someone to understand him.”

“He’s got you,” Eliot ventured. He cut his eyes to the side and watched Kady as she set up the kitchen. Her boot laces were untied. He had the impulse to go tie them for her, sit her down, brush the tangles out of her hair, and make her eat a balanced breakfast. Like Eliot needed any more _attachments_. They were coming out of the woodwork these days.

“It’s not the same. We’re family. We’ll always be family. But Q—he wants—well, he needs something beyond that, even if he doesn’t believe it. Even if he thinks he needs to wait—even if he thinks he needs to avoid it. He’s scared,” she said softly, pausing and biting at her lower lip. “He’s scared of getting hurt again. But he’s putting that fear before anything else. Before being happy. When I think he could be.”

“And you’re not dating because?” He bit down on the urge to point out that she was leading Kady on for funsies. It was a bit scathing, even for him. 

She smiled, a sad little thing. “I had my heart broken, too. I’d had the same boyfriend since high school—on again, off again. And he finally ended it for good. When we were on a break, I dated—well, she’s a… narcissist. Maybe that’s a little generous. Probably a sociopath. Definitely a personality disorder. There was another guy, too. It was pretty bad.

“I wanted to take things slow after that, so I brought up this dating agreement Q and I had in high school. I knew Quentin would eventually get annoyed enough with me to… go on a date with someone. ” She poked him right below the trinity knot in his tie. It was the tie Quentin told him he liked—not relevant, obviously. Another coincidence. “And he _really_ likes you.”

Eliot tasted salt and metal at the back of his throat; it was the same sensation he had gotten when Logan Kinnear had pushed him against the wall on the way out of gym class. Except—this was somehow far more terrifying. The hot, squirmy thing inside of him took on new life, putting him in mind of sitting at the top of a roller coaster with no view of the way down. A sensation of joy, tinged by danger. Eliot thought his roller coaster was probably made of centuries-old wood, and it was likely to fall the fuck apart at any point. He should—he needed to run. Hide upstairs. Ditch the party and go to a bar. Tell Kady he needed to call off the whole fucking thing. It was a kind of confirmation of what he’d feared—that Quentin would be too invested, too quickly. Eliot didn’t do invested. He didn’t do _this boy likes me oh so much_. Not since… well, he didn’t like to think about how it had been with Mike. Eliot didn’t like to… _dwell_ on Mike. Eliot preferred to ignore, drink, and move on quickly. But. With Quentin, it wasn’t just that he’d get invested. It was that Quentin had decided to hold Eliot at arm’s length. And even more than that, it was that Eliot, deep down, if he let himself think on it even a little, _wanted_ Quentin to be invested. 

_Danger. Danger. Danger._ The creeping, awful feeling of it gathered inside of him like a storm. But it was coupled with something hopeful and joyous and bright and centered on a very beautiful boy with a sharp tongue and a pretty mouth.

“I—I like him, too,” Eliot said, stammering the words out before he could stop himself. “He’ll be here?”

“Yeah. If he can figure out how to get here. He’s the reason they invented GPS. He was writing when I left, so I can only assume he’s on his way, possibly lost somewhere on the outskirts of the Bronx. But he’ll get here. He wouldn’t miss it. Not when you invited him.” She gave him that sweet smile again, the one that made him feel, vaguely, like she’d caught him misbehaving—both warm and intimidating at once. He could, possibly, change his opinion on Julia Wicker. The jury was out. She still had that air of attempting to manage Quentin, which Eliot didn’t exactly love. But there was something else that lived alongside that intention—genuine affection, a shared history, a bond stronger than family. And that he could respect. “Ask him out again. Just be patient. And maybe—consider going to prom.”

“You’re adorable.” He reached out and cupped her cheek. “But there’s no fucking way I’m going to prom.”

Eliot checked his phone again. No word from Quentin, but it was early yet.


	10. Sit by my side, and let the world slip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot takes out the garbage. And Quentin doesn’t date anyone at all.

~Quentin~

Julia wasn’t at home for this evening’s wardrobe-related meltdown. She’d been at Kady’s place— _Eliot’s place_ —not-dating her not-girlfriend. And Quentin was left at home, losing his goddamn mind. The shirt he’d worn to his coffee not-date with Eliot hadn’t been washed or ironed, of fucking course, because Quentin was a total _ruin_ of a human being, and he couldn’t even _live his own life_. He’d spent over an hour, sweaty and panicking, throwing his clothes around his room with no real purpose or plan. He’d ended up pulling on a ratty blue sweatshirt with his cleanest pair of black jeans, and he’d taken off down his street, hair still wet, setting out for the upscale thrift store near his apartment. He’d practically begged the woman working there to outfit him with something that was acceptable. She’d taken pity on him and helped him find a plaid blue and white button down and a fitted gray sweater that she assured him had been a few hundred bucks when it was new. Regardless of her honestly, Quentin felt a little less like an asshole when he boarded the train headed for Eliot’s townhouse. Halfway to Eliot’s place, Quentin realized he was still carrying the sweatshirt. It had a hole in one sleeve. Eliot couldn’t see him with this fucking sweatshirt in his hand. He panicked when he got off the train and tossed it on top of a trash can several doors down from Eliot’s place.

By the time Quentin arrived at ‘The Cottage,’ a pretentious-ass name for a townhouse in the Bronx, he was like, thirty minutes late for the party and panting. He had picked up a bottle of fancy-looking gin at a little store near the subway station, and in the dirty bathroom, he’d smoothed down the flyaways in his almost-dry hair and redid his bun. Julia kept bugging him to cut it—but Eliot had complimented him on his hair more than once, so. Who was the real expert? Julia, who wore Athleta and LuluLemon instead of actual clothes—or Eliot, who talked about his vintage suspenders and his collection of custom ties? Quentin knew the answer. The bun was staying. No shade to Julia.

He stood across the street from the house longer than was strictly necessary, rocking back on his feet and chewing the inside of his cheek. Eliot had asked him out, like actually asked him out. And here Quentin was, a mere three days after he’d refused to go on a date with the hottest guy he’d ever seen, no exaggeration. They kept meeting up at The Cinnamon Roll, sitting together, having coffee and talking about nothing in particular while Eliot gave him that bedroom-eyes, fuck-me look and stroked the velour fabric of the chair meaningfully. They’d been doing the thing you were supposed to do, getting to know each other. And Quentin was a fucking dumbass, so he’d turned Eliot down. What the fuck was wrong with Quentin? 

He had to remind himself that he wasn’t dating for a _good reason_. After Alice, he had almost had to go back to the Midtown Mental Health Clinic for a nice, long stay. If it weren’t for Julia, there was no doubt that he would have been there, doing paintings of sunsets and staring blankly into space while the psychiatrist tried to decide what the fuck was wrong with him this time. After he was solidly over Alice, as much as he was going to get, he fell into bed with another friend and ruined that friendship. Like, hotly. Very, very hotly. But. Ruined all the same. And well. Julia didn’t even know, did she? That hadn’t sent him into a spiral, but he knew it—Eliot _would_.

He did have his handy combo of Abilify, Wellbutrin, and Adderall under his belt now, but still. He knew his brain better than anyone, and it didn’t do well around cute boys. Or girls. Or anyone human, irrespective of gender. He’d planned to finish grad school—one more year!—get the novel sold (which was currently in a nebulous conceptual phase and totally not a novel), and then he could refocus his emotional energy and find it within himself to actually date. Someone reasonable. Someone Quentin’s speed. 

God. Quentin had gotten his heart stomped enough times to know that his impulse to stay away from Eliot’s dick was one of self preservation. The guy he’d hooked up with his senior year at Columbia had been like, almost as hot as Eliot. Like if Eliot was a solid ten (he was), Matteo was like, a seven, seven and a half. He’d been a fucking deejay and sold molly to wide-eyed freshman. He had a rap sheet, a big dick, and a thing for Quentin’s hair. Once he’d gotten what he wanted from Quentin—thirty or so one-night stands, as Quentin later thought of it, where Quentin bottomed _every single time_ —he’d ghosted Quentin without so much as a second thought. Quentin had been _devastated_. And when he’d fallen for Alice, it had been even worse. That was a real relationship, something he could see for the long term. Sure, he could admit now that they were incompatible. But it had hurt so badly that he couldn’t see straight, that he’d sunk into his bed and couldn’t get out of it.

If he actually dated Eliot, he’d just be digging himself into the same damn hole he’d climbed out of six months ago. Eliot— _sure_ , he’d made it clear he wanted to… whatever, hook up with Quentin, which was like, impossible to understand—but Quentin had to keep reminding himself that guys like Eliot and Matteo got tired of messy nerds like Quentin. Eliot would get his… well, whatever he wanted, Quentin wasn’t sure, and he’d move right the fuck on. He just had to keep that in mind when he was faced with Eliot’s mischievous smirk or his bare forearms or any part of Eliot, really. Why had he come here again? 

He braced himself and went to the door, ready to be _friendly_ because he’d resolved to be _friends_ with Eliot. He could do that. He could pretend that he wasn’t going to bed thinking of Eliot’s graceful hands turning the pages of _The Tempest_ , that he wasn’t waking up in the morning, bleary from sex-soaked dreams, Eliot’s name on his lips. Quentin was good at pretending. He’d pretended he was sane for nearly a quarter of a century, hadn’t he? He could do this. He could do hard things.

He lifted his hand to knock on the door, and it opened before he could even rap against the wood. There was Eliot—his dark curls artfully tousled, his eyes set on Quentin. He was wearing skinny, dark blue trousers that hugged the lines of his long legs, a chambray waistcoat, a patterned purple shirt, and his tie with the tiny gold flowers set against a field of bright blue. Quentin loved that tie—it brought out the yellow flecks in his eyes. The full effect was one of casual elegance. That arrogant fucker pulled it off so well. Quentin would look like an idiot if he tried any of that. A thrill ran through Quentin’s center, spreading to the soft edges of his being. Fuck. This guy was so much trouble.

“Q,” he said, wearing a bright smile. He tugged at Quentin’s hands and pulled him inside. Eliot took the gin from his hand, his index finger brushing over the pad of his thumb, a quick, intimate touch that set off sparks beneath Quentin’s skin. He swallowed hard.

And yeah, okay. Maybe a slight revision to his plans to be totally platonic about Eliot. That was not going to work, not in any world where Eliot went around looking like _that_ , looking at Quentin like _that_. Quentin was just a total slut for those vests—they accentuated that slender build and somehow helped make his ass look amazing. Which was, wow. It was always amazing? But the whole waistcoat situation made it like, just that much better. Just like super _firm_ and pert. Like a peach. 

“Let’s get you a drink.” Eliot slipped Quentin’s arm in his. 

“Uh. Okay.” He pursed his lips. “Did you just call me ‘Q’?”

“Oh—yeah, I guess I did.” Eliot peered down at him (because he was always peering _down_ at Quentin, which was, for some reason, unbearably fucking hot). He brushed his thumb against Quentin’s cheek. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah—oh. I like it. Um. I do like it. What was—”

“Eyelash,” Eliot said. He was inches from Quentin’s face, and he smelled _so good,_ like autumn. Wet leaves on pavement, wine and spice. Quentin had the almost unbearable impulse to _lick him_ , which was so fucking weird. Why was his brain this way? He wished he could get on some kind of list for a new one. One of his first therapists had told him it was an ‘intrusive thought.’ The impulse to… like, slap someone while they were talking. Or tuck your hand into their armpit. Or _lick them_ , like his brain frequently supplied when he was with Eliot. 

Eliot was still staring at him, and he was so close, and Quentin literally _couldn’t talk_. _Say something. Anything. Literally, anything. Fuck!_

“Uh. So.” Quentin’s eyes darted everywhere but Eliot’s face. The ceiling, the window, the fucking berber carpet. Someone, Margo maybe, had put on some kind of disco light, and it was rotating, projecting blue and orange and green over the walls of The Cottage. 

“Are you okay?”

“Me?” Quentin cleared his throat. “I’m—oh. I’m fine?”

“Was that a question?”

“No?”

“So. Are you actually not okay? Ex-girlfriend or—classes or something?” Eliot reached for him like he might push Quentin’s stray hair behind his ear, but he awkwardly dropped his hand at the last second. He thought that was probably for the best since he knew he’d lean into Eliot’s touch like a deranged feral cat seeking its only chance at affection. Fuck. He was not going to survive this party.

“Uh. No. Nothing like that. Alice—um. We haven’t talked for months. She’s doing like, bioengineering stuff and made it clear she didn’t have time for—” He quirked his brows together. Why was he suddenly talking about Alice? To _Eliot_? _Jesus Christ. Get it together, Coldwater._ His cheeks were pulsing with heat. “I mean. No. I’m fine.” 

Eliot stepped back for a moment, taking in the sweater Quentin thought was probably too small, the untucked hem of his shirt, the more-or-less-okay state of his like, tightest pair of black jeans. “Well, you look absolutely fetching. Very preppy Brooklyn hipster-chic.”

 _Fetching?_ Quentin tugged at his collar. It felt, suddenly, like it was glued to his skin with rubber cement. “Is there such a thing as a preppy hipster? In Brooklyn?”

Eliot looked at him like the question was absolutely idiotic. “Your drink,” he said, as if suddenly remembering. “You need a drink, right?”

Holy fuck. Quentin could think of a lot of things he needed, and they had to do with Eliot more than anything else. Unhelpful. Against the rules. Against _Quentin’s very own rules._ He was defying his own code of conduct by like, even being here, he realized. With Eliot Waugh, self-avowed hedonist and heartbreaker. Sitting next to him at the coffee shop was one thing—or taking a stroll in the light of day. But seeing him here, again, in the dim light with soft music playing in the background—something eighties, maybe—he was incandescent, fatally tempting. It was here that Eliot had leaned in close to Quentin weeks ago, running the tip of his tongue over his teeth, and said, ‘ _I have a big bed_.’ He was never going to get that out of his head.

“Fuck. Um, yeah. I do need a drink.”

“That’s one thing I can do.” He pulled Quentin across the room to his bookcase-cum-bar and launched into an explanation of the tart-citrus flavors in his custom drink for the welcome-to-October party at their beloved townhouse. (“How is that even a theme?” Quentin asked, but Eliot gave him another one of those looks like he thought Quentin might be losing his mind.) When Eliot passed him the drink, his hand brushed against Quentin’s again, adding to that weird-wanting heat that started at the base of his spine. Had he ever felt this way about Alice? He couldn’t remember that he had. It was _different_. She’d been so _collected_ , almost untouchable. He’d mistaken that for maturity, he thought. It turned out they both had their own fucked up baggage, and when they emptied it all out on the table together, it was just a big fucking mess. Maybe that had prevented him from feeling this way. Maybe it was something else. 

The drink was delicious and light, exactly what Eliot had promised. Eliot looked at him expectantly, and he grinned when Quentin nodded. “It’s good. Really...” he tried for the type of words Eliot might expect from him. “Really fresh and, uh… like, crisp.”

Eliot’s smile widened, his expression an uncomplicated, warm thing—pleased. It made Quentin feel fizzy on the inside—the implied compliment that Quentin’s opinion actually mattered. He sipped at his drink, taking up a place by the bar after Eliot told him to ‘settle in’ while he made drinks for as many partygoers as he could manage. Quentin took the opportunity to watch Eliot’s hands, elegant and deft, as he twisted lemon into clear plastic cups and delicately topped off the gin with grapefruit seltzer and passion fruit drizzle. Not terribly in line with the season, Quentin thought, but damn delicious. He finished his first drink embarrassingly fast, just watching Eliot, listening to the cadence of his voice, sinking into the hum of voices around him, the rhythmic beat of the music—he couldn’t pick out the words or name the song. His senses began to blur just at the edges, the world of the party taking on a rosy warmth. If he had another drink just like this, the tight, anxious feeling might fade away. It was imperative to quit drinking at a certain point, obviously, but he could think about that later.

When there was a break in the crowd of people mobbing Eliot’s bar, he gave Quentin a little wink and opened the gin he’d brought. “I’ll use this for your next drink.”

“Oh. I mean. It’s for you.” Eliot’s full attention was on him again—he looked down, away, glanced back up again.

“I’d like to enjoy it with you. It’s better that way.” He mixed a drink for Quentin and one for himself, sidling up to Quentin when he was done. He placed the cup gently into Quentin’s hand.

“You look good,” Eliot said, looking Quentin over. He ran his index finger along the sleeve of the sweater, ending at the plaid sleeve peeking beneath the cuff. “This is new.”

And okay, he was going to _die,_ now. Fuck. He could not possibly live in a world where Eliot just casually _touched_ him. Eliot made him feel like he’d woken up far too early and tried to steady himself by drinking five cups of coffee—woozy, buzzing, unfit for operating commercial machinery. 

“Oh. Yeah. Just a little something I picked up.” That was a thing people said, right? And he didn’t sound like a crazy person. Okay, cool. He got through that one interaction without losing his mind. He could do a few more, couldn’t he? 

The passion fruit came through the citrus notes in the drink, and the gin in this drink _was_ better than what Eliot had served him before. God, he could drink this all night and just stare into Eliot’s eyes, watch his lips move, maybe accept a bit of his affection without bursting into flame. That last one was a ‘maybe.’ 

“You look splendid, Quentin,” Eliot said. His eyes flicked back over Quentin’s outfit again, lingering on his neck, his lips. “Really. Like you’re… going on a _date_. But you don’t date, so I must be confused.”

“God, you’re an asshole,” Quentin said, rolling his eyes. The ire he meant to convey didn’t come through in his words. Instead, he sounded affectionate, _fond_.

“Just to be clear, it’s a standing offer.” A few strands of hair had fallen out of Quentin’s bun. Eliot took them in his fingers and brushed them back behind Quentin’s ear. The place where he’d touched Quentin felt like stars, a celestial hum gathering beneath Quentin’s skin.

Quentin took a bracing gulp of his drink, willing the frenetic anxiety, the unmitigated _want_ in his body to back the fuck off and leave him alone. “Honestly?”

“Yes, honestly.” Eliot leaned in closer. “Dating, staying over. Standing offer.” He smelled like hand-rolled cigarettes and passion fruit. Quentin wanted to bury himself inside that scent and fall asleep, cradled and kept. _Fall asleep in your branches,_ he thought. He’d been listening to that song before he bolted out of his apartment and ran to the thrift store. He thought maybe he hadn’t understood it fully before he’d met Eliot, the particular feeling evoked—the terror of being too much, feeling too much, coupled with the unending desire to lock into the person he wanted so deeply that he felt like it might break him. 

“Lemme make you another drink,” Eliot said, eyes sparkling, mouth turned into a smirk. Those curls—wild against his forehead—Quentin knew he’d spent _time_ on his hair. Eliot was the type of person who did that. A frisson of excitement ran through Quentin. Maybe—it wasn’t too big a leap, was it?—maybe Eliot had thought of Quentin when he was getting dressed, picking out each piece. That would be insane, though, wouldn’t it? For Eliot to think of Quentin like that. He’d said it was a _standing offer_ , which meant… it meant that he could have this. Maybe only for a little while, even just a night. Would the memory be worth it? The taste of Eliot’s lips, citrus and cigarettes, the feeling of Eliot’s fingertips brushing over his skin, his cock moving inside Quentin. God. It was insane to think that there was this thing that Quentin wanted so desperately, a thing he could _have_. It wasn’t something that happened to Quentin, not in any uncomplicated way. He’d had desire, had been desired, but the clarity of what he felt when he looked at Eliot, the depth of it, was unrivaled. Like a Crater Lake, he thought—clear all the way to the bottom. 

What was the reason he was denying himself?

“I have a—oh.” He looked down at his drink. Somewhere in the thinking and the talking, he’d consumed a second drink. Better to go slow. “Okay. A drink. And a smoke?”

“At your service,” Eliot said, smiling to himself as he poured more of the gin Quentin had brought, adding the other components with graceful precision, fingers moving deftly. Those _hands_ , working like magic. 

Quentin was more or less in a daze when Eliot handed him the drink. He was talking about something—Kady’s voice teacher and her penchant for terrible karaoke songs—but the words were slipping around Quentin, nothing quite sticking where it was supposed to. “You look nice tonight,” he blurted.

Eliot’s eyes met his and he looked a little—something. Surprised? Something else maybe. Quentin braced himself for a quip or a biting little remark, but it didn’t come. “Thank you.” Eliot’s voice sounded hoarse, maybe, none of the playfulness of us his usual tone. It was—fuck—kind of hot, like it was something no one else got to see. 

Quentin swallowed hard, gulped another sip of his drink. “Yeah—uh. I actually. I panicked and went out to buy a new outfit before the—I mean, this afternoon.”

“Oh really? Trying to impress me?” Eliot smirked, reaching for the lighter in his pocket, flipping it open and closing it again.

“Oh—I. No.” _Yes_. “I just really don’t have a lot of clothes for fall—”

Eliot raised an eyebrow. “You’re a pumpkin spice latte commercial.”

“Come again?” 

A grin split Eliot’s face. “Skinny jeans and gray hoodies. Long sleeve Henley shirts with tortoiseshell buttons. Wearing boots seems to be part of your religion.” 

“I like boots,” Quentin huffed. “They’re—they’re—these are very _nice_ boots.”

“You were wearing them in August.”

“And you noticed.”

Eliot smoothly put his hand at the small of Quentin’s back. “Oh honey, I’m a theater kid. I was sewing costumes for _The Crucible_ in my grandmother’s attic by the tender age of fourteen. I notice details. It has nothing to do with the boy wearing the details.” 

If Quentin were suave he’d say something like, ‘Oh but when it’s this boy, you always notice.’ Quentin was, however, not at all smooth. Instead, he watched dumbly as Eliot opened the balcony door. “Oh. You sew?” 

Eliot looked at him affectionately, like he was a puppy who simply didn’t know how to ring the bell to get outside just yet. “I do, in fact.”

There was movement at the periphery of his vision, and he turned to see Julia waving at him, her arm slung around Kady’s waist. Not dating. Yeah, okay, Julia. 

There was one other guy out on the balcony, chatting on the phone to someone—maybe his mom? 

“Inside, Todd. I call dominance over the porch. Go on, now. It’s not your house.”

“Oh—ha. Okay, Eliot,” Todd said, smiling sheepishly. “Oh—oh yeah, Mom. I _was_ talking to Eliot. No—no. He doesn’t need to—oh—okay, fine.” Todd paused. “My mom says ‘hi.’”

“Tell her I said hello. Goodbye now, Todd.”

Todd trotted off inside, and Quentin watched him as he went, amused. “He’s… interesting.” 

“Lighting guy. Like, he actually _studies_ stage lighting. He wishes he lived here.”

“He’s got a thing for you,” Quentin said. “Like, definitely.”

Eliot lit a cigarette and took a drag, leaning his long body back against the railing. “ _Todd_? God, no. He’s not—” 

“He’s not what?” Quentin put one of his own cigarettes between his lips. When he started fishing around for his lighter in his jeans, Eliot leaned forward almost automatically and lit it for him. The sharp hit of nicotine made his brain all loose and buzzy, the corners of his thoughts softened. It was dangerous, this state of mind—he knew it. Looking at Eliot, he just wanted to be _close_ , pressed against his body, his skin. Make him shed all of his layers. Throw all his clothes in the fucking alley and kneel down—

“He had a girlfriend last year.”

“Who?” Quentin knit his brows. They’d been talking about _something_. 

Eliot sipped his drink and raised an eyebrow. “Todd. I was saying he had a girlfriend—”

“So did I. Doesn’t mean I didn’t have a boyfriend the year before that.”

“Oh really? Do tell me about my competition. The pioneer who got to scale Mount Coldwater—” 

“God. I shouldn’t have said anything. I can’t handle the fake flirting—uh. I mean, maybe it’s not fake? But. I just want to be friends, and you know that. So I don’t—” He was rambling.

“Hey,” Eliot said. He stepped closer and placed a hand on Quentin’s shoulder, which was _really_ not helping anything. His skin felt like fire whenever Eliot even _looked_ at him. He almost wanted to flinch away from his touch, but he wanted to lean into it, too. “Hey. I—it’s not fake. I’ll back off. You don’t have to tell me a thing.” 

Quentin gulped at his drink. “No, I. It’s fine. I—um. Well. ‘Boyfriend’ is a strong word. It was casual. His name was Matteo. I was more invested than I should have been. It was over after a few months. Just felt like a series of one-night-stands with the same person. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It just… fucked with my head for a little while. He was hot—and well, he was great in bed. So. I kept—I didn’t stop coming by his place. And he kept—you know. Responding to my, uh, presence. And then he, he moved out? And didn’t respond to my texts. I liked Matteo a lot and he was just… using me, I guess. There was another guy, too. But that was just… a natural conclusion of living in close quarters. And emotions. And wine. Sort of… ended our friendship. More or less. Like, it wasn’t the same after that.” There was some kind of commotion inside—he could hear raised voices, the beat of the music making the yelling sound like it was set to rhythm. “Uh. What’s that?”

“Nothing, I’m sure. I need to hear about this emotions and wine boy, hm?” Eliot said dismissively. 

“There’s not much to tell. Weekend long fuckfest.” Quentin looked away awkwardly. 

“Fuckfest?” Eliot leaned in toward him. Of course he wanted to know about the _fuckfest_. Jesus, Quentin could have picked better phrasing.

“Um, I mean. It was just that. Sex. And I’d liked him for a while. But it wasn’t anything. I knew it wasn’t going to be… anything. Real. Matteo, I guess I kinda thought we were together. Turned out I was wrong.”

Eliot tapped his cup against Quentin’s. “You know, Matteo’s an ass if he didn’t want to actually date you. He didn’t know what he had in his hands, did he?”

Quentin’s cheeks went hot; Eliot’s gaze was fixed on him, dark and hot. “That’s not necessarily true. I mean. It’s fine for anyone not to want to—you know, date someone else. And I wasn’t like, vocal about what I needed, was I? And I wanted to get laid. So I.” He gestured vaguely. “Kept texting him. Asking if I could come by. And then I went by his place and—we’d, you know.”

“I do know,” Eliot said. He took a drag of his cigarette and puffed out a smoke ring, eyes never leaving Quentin. “But you can tell me specifics _any time_ , darling.”

“God.” Quentin wished there was something to hide behind, but there wasn’t anything. “I mean. Not much to tell.” He sipped his drink, closing his eyes and savoring the sweet and sharp playing together over his tongue. Did Eliot really want to hear that? That he loved being tossed around, that he liked sucking dick, like— _really_ liked it. He’d never had bad reviews on it, either. Even when Matteo was _completely_ sick of him, well. There were still certain things he’d wanted from Quentin. The good parts revolved around sex—and he knew it would sure as fuck be good with Eliot. But Quentin’s like, emotional stability wouldn’t be left intact. If Matteo had gotten sick of him, Eliot would, too. He knew it. 

“Mm hmm. Certainly not. I’m not interested at all,” Eliot said, finishing the last of his cigarette. His lips were so pink; a hint of silvery eyeliner caught the light beneath his lower lash line. _Incandescent_ , he thought again, uselessly. Why was he even here if he could only _look_ at something he wanted so badly? Maybe he should consider breaking out his inner sex kitten and just… get in that big bed. Depart before Eliot had any time to get sick of him. 

Quentin pulled out another cigarette and looked up. The moon was up, hidden behind clouds, an eerie dim light over everything. When he put the cigarette between his teeth, Eliot had moved another step closer, just inches from Quentin. He leaned in and lit it, a glowing ember in the night. “Thanks,” Quentin said.

“My pleasure.”

Inside, which seemed so far away, there was something _happening_ , and it sounded like it might be escalating. Quentin gave approximately zero fucks. He was three drinks in, his blood buzzing, his body light and airy and so, so _close_ to Eliot. 

"So," Eliot started. His eyes were locked on Quentin's. He could, like, compose an ode to Eliot's eyes—his ridiculously long lashes, the shifting copper and ocean-green. Quentin had seen an opal like that; not one of the iridescent ones that evoked a glittery ballerina feeling. No, this had been at the Smithsonian in the darkened hallway where Quentin had seen the Hope Diamond on his sixth grade field trip to DC. The opal he'd seen was like a stilled drop of honey, shot through with veins of gold and shifting greens. And he thought, maybe, that was the best comparison he could offer to Eliot's eyes. 

"So, um," Quentin repeated, utterly idiotic. He took a long drag of the cigarette, letting it burn in his lungs. He watched the stream of smoke as it clouded above them and drifted into the night. If he were more sober (and he definitely wasn't), he'd march back out to the street and get an Uber back to Morningside Heights, where he could slink back to his apartment, make fried rice from leftover Chinese food, and crawl under his covers forever, where he could be safe from the depth of feeling just _looking_ at Eliot caused. But. As he'd established, he was far from sober, and Eliot smelled like hand-rolled cigarettes, and his waistcoat made him somehow look taller, slimmer, cinched in at the waist, right where Quentin wanted to put his hands. 

"Aren't we conversationalists this evening?"

"That's a fifty cent word," Quentin said, immediately regretting that he'd opened his mouth. "I mean, for what we are." Yeah, that was fucking helpful. Jesus, his brain. Why did it do him like this?

But Eliot grinned—even his teeth were nice—like he was... pleased? Quentin's eyes darted back to the party, away from Eliot, away from whatever was happening in his stupid brain and his even stupider body. And Eliot, true to form, inched closer, stretching his arm over the railing of the balcony, right behind Quentin's back. His leg was pressed against Quentin's, and he jolted, nearly tipping himself over the balcony's edge when he realized that Eliot's hand was now pressed against his back. 

"You are," Eliot said, so fucking close to Quentin now, "so fucking cute. I find it hard to believe—”

" _Eliot_ ," Quentin said, almost mournful. Heat blossomed inside of him, starting low in the cradle of his hips and spreading upward, spinning through him. Like drinking hot chocolate after coming in from the snow, he thought hazily, staring at Eliot's parted lips.

Eliot tucked a bit of hair behind Quentin's ear, sending a sharp spike of _need_ through the sultry warmth. "I was going to say, I find it so hard to believe that the girls and boys of Columbia aren't beating down your door. You're a dream."

"Uh—you can't just. Can't just say stuff like that."

"What? I didn't ask you on a date."

Quentin groaned and rolled his eyes. It was sort of hard to act appropriately annoyed when Eliot was like, fifty feet inside of his personal bubble, with no apparent plans to evacuate any time soon. Eliot's fingers trailed down the line of Quentin's neck, playing over the line of his collar and making circles over the hollow of his neck. 

"El—I’m just. This is something I'm probably, like, not—”

"You haven't called me that before," he said, smiling, wearing that maybe-pleased look. He preened, a very pretty peacock. The prettiest. "Your pulse is racing. Like a little hummingbird."

"Ah—I.” Quentin gulped, and he couldn't help but lean into Eliot's touch, moving closer. His hand played over Quentin's chest, pressing at the buttons on his shirt beneath his sweater. The night air was cool, and Eliot was so _warm_ and near, and he smelled _so good_. He smoked the remainder of his cigarette, with Eliot just touching him, not saying anything. This was pretty far from what Quentin had intended when he'd followed Eliot to the balcony. He'd really just wanted to smoke. 

Eliot lifted the hem of his artfully untucked button-down, pausing, hand near the line of Quentin's waist. "Is this okay?"

 _Fuck_ , he didn't think it _was_ okay. Shit. Okay, he could be an adult and tell him to tap the brakes, that he wasn't ready for any of this. Instead. "Yeah, _please_."

Eliot moaned as he pressed his hand against the skin just above Quentin's hip, skimming his fingers along the edge of his waistband, over his furred belly that made him desperately self conscious—not sculpted enough, never hairless, not even _manscaped_. But Eliot—Eliot _shivered_ when he ran his fingers through the hair there. 

"I like that," he said. "All these gym bunny types think they oughta have zero body hair and—" Eliot was still running his hand over Quentin's belly, scratching over his hair. Quentin was—well, he was a human cat, first of all. And he hadn't been _touched_ in fucking... centuries. Eliot circled Quentin's navel with his thumb, making Quentin's breath catch in his throat. "--and you know, maybe some guys like that. Whatever. But I didn't grow up dreaming of getting a pretty boy under my hands just to discover he doesn't have an ounce of hair." He leaned in and whispered in Quentin's ear. "It's part of what I like about boys."

"Jesus Christ," Quentin said. "How can you just." It was—maybe—a little. Too much. He was about to say to Eliot that he was probably not _at all_ ready for this, but the words sure as fuck weren't going to come now that Eliot was inches from his face, his long fingers playing over Quentin's skin, touching him like he was something rare and precious and _desirable_. All the things that Quentin knew he _wasn't_. He wondered where, along the way, he'd somehow fooled Eliot into thinking he was something to be treasured. Something special. Without thinking, he was leaning up and into Eliot, his lips almost brushing Eliot's.

"I like you," Eliot said. His breath was hot against Quentin's lips, the barest hint of passion fruit hitting Quentin’s senses. 

He could close the space between them so easily, take Eliot's face in his hands and rub his face over the stubble, make it burn his skin, so he would feel it the next day. So he could _see it_. "Eliot, I want—”

Their lips were so close, nearly touching. It would take nothing to crush their mouths together, to make it real, not something they were both just toying with. Maybe it was better to take a chance, step over the edge of the cliff and see if Eliot would catch him, take him somewhere new. He brought his hand around to the back of Eliot's neck--reaching up--he had to--he was so tall. So much taller than Quentin. He ran his fingers through the soft, dark curls at the back of Eliot's neck. Eliot's hand was splayed over the expanse of his waist. His hands covered so much _space_. It made Quentin almost _angry_ with desire. _How dare he be so fucking beautiful?_ It was goddamn criminal.

He surged up, lips touching Eliot's, and—at that same moment, the door to the balcony opened. "Hey, Eliot!" 

"What the actual _fuck_ , Todd?" Eliot had barely moved, but he'd inched back enough that it couldn't be considered a kiss any longer. It was that in-between space again, the space where Quentin didn't quite know what he wanted, but it definitely involved touching as much of Eliot as possible. Whether that was sex or a like, very extended teenager-y make out session where Quentin wrapped his entire body around as much of Eliot as he could access, he couldn't be entire sure. He needed to do some more research, he thought. For science. (And he shouldn't. He _shouldn't._ He _knew_.) 

"Uh. Julie—I think that's her name—she's asking for your—your friend, here. I’m like. Really sorry to interrupt. I know you don’t want me to—ah—” Quentin could actually hear Todd swallowing like he was anxious to be back out on the balcony again after Eliot told him to go back inside. 

"Not right now," Eliot growled, voice rough. Quentin's fingers gripped at Eliot's hair, and Eliot groaned, bringing his forehead to rest against Quentin's. "Go _away_ , Todd." 

“I really think that like, we need to—well, Quentin—is that your name—”

"Yep," Quentin said. "Um. It is. And my friend is _Julia_.” 

"Well, see. You know Marina?"

"Yeah," Eliot said, sounding _bored_. "She's harmless—” He was petting at Quentin’s stomach still, which sent shivers along the column of his spine, his mind fuzzing out, only focused on _here, now, Eliot_. Until the words _registered_ and he connected the name Todd had uttered with that _fucking woman_.

"Fuck. Fucking shit. Jesus. She is _not_. She’s the actual furthest thing from harmless.” Quentin disentangled himself from Eliot, who started chasing after Quentin with his body, like he was trying to follow him wherever he was going. Quentin was—well, he wasn't not hard. He shifted, shaking himself out and tugging down his rucked up shirt, nearly hopping into the table on the balcony. His brain was fuzzy at the edges, still trying to hang onto the feeling of Eliot's lips against his, the promise of his body, the way they so clearly _wanted_ each other. With Quentin being Quentin, he wasn't likely to find this again--someone so gorgeous who wanted him so much. He glanced back at Eliot, who was very slowly walking behind him, an air of disappointment on his face. When he saw Quentin, the emotion faded from his face, replaced with something like casual amusement. 

"Um—I’m um. Sorry. We'll—ah—”

"No worries," Eliot said, smoothly, running his hands down over his vest and plucking at the bottom of it, straightening the lines of his outfit. Quentin had never considered clothing as something that contributed to a person's attractiveness, like, not at all. He had a uniform—t-shirt, hoody, jeans, boots, Gold Toe socks. He had exactly five button-down shirts, one of which he'd purchased just that afternoon, and two of which did _not_ fit. The gray sweater he was currently wearing was his first 'nice' sweater, and the only sweater he had that didn't come from a Target in New Jersey. His jeans more or less fit him since Julia forced him to throw away every pair that sagged or had worn-out holes at the knees. Clothes just didn’t make the man, not in Quentin’s opinion. But Eliot—he was different. In so many ways, but in that way especially. Eliot wanted to be seen, appreciated. He selected each item with care, creating a story about who he was. Looking at Eliot was basically art appreciation, so. It couldn’t be helped.

He was too fucking high on Eliot to even know what he was doing. He nearly crashed into the glass part of the door because he was walking backwards, very obviously _checking Eliot out_.

Eliot smirked. “What are you looking at? Don't you have a friend to save? From the evil clutches of—who's Marina to her? Do tell. I'm confused."

"Ex-girlfriend. Sort of." Quentin cringed and nearly stumbled into Todd, almost falling on his ass in a room full of yelling people.

"Well, shit. She's not what I'd call—fuck—Q, are you okay?”

Quentin never found out Eliot's full opinion on Marina because he backed his ass into the middle of a fight between—what the fuck? It wasn't just Julia, who was _crying_ , like _sobbing_ , but Kady was blocking Julia with her body. They were both a mere hand’s width away from Marina, who put Quentin in mind of a rattlesnake, coiled up and ready to strike. And because Quentin was an _idiot_ and three drinks into the night—and, shit, he hadn’t had dinner, had he?—he threw his hands out, sidling up to Marina. “Whatever you’re doing, it’s _enough_. It’s time for you to, uh, get the fuck out.”

Quentin’s entrance warranted a half-giggle from Julia, and Quentin dimly thought that he was glad he was good for something because Marina clearly wasn’t moving, and he had absolutely no idea what the fuck was going on. 

Marina cut her eyes at Quentin, icy blue and _cold_. “Oh, it’s your scrawny little roommate. Did you just show up from the kiddie table to tell me how to fight with my ex-girlfriend? And her—whatever she is?” Marina gestured to Kady. 

“Fuck off, Marina. I told you this is my house, and I want you out. Jules is my friend, and she doesn’t need you stirring shit up.” Kady was maybe about three seconds away from slapping the shit out of Marina, and fuck, Quentin _hated_ her for how she’d treated Julia, but he kind of had an inkling it would be a really _bad fucking idea_ to hit Marina.

“Your _friend_ is a little bitch who didn’t know how good she had it, and now she’s scraping up the dregs. Never expected to run into you _here_ , with _her_.” She pointed at Kady, almost, but not quite touching her. Julia looked like she might lift off into orbit, propelled by the purity of her rage. 

“Please just,” Quentin started, “get the actual fuck out of here. What do you have to gain by—”

“No one asked you, dopey little puppy,” Marina snarled.

Puppy? That one was new. Quentin squared his shoulders. She needed to go. He’d seen Julia after Marina had actually physically attacked her, so. He figured he could at least stand up for his best friend, even if—well, even if he had no idea what was going on and less of a clue about what to say. “I’d rather be a puppy than a fucking cun—terrible person because—uh—that is a word I definitely do not say.” 

Somewhere behind him, Eliot snorted, apparently enjoying the show. What a dick. Seriously. God, Quentin hated him. Like. Uncontrollably wanted him and simultaneously hated him for how he never seemed to take anything seriously. It was always arch with him; amusing. 

"You walked out on me," Marina said. She was ranting now. To anyone who didn't know her, Marina might look calm. Collected. But. Her eyes burned with a righteous fire, all of her rage directed at the pinpoint of Julia, blocked by Kady. "You took your shit. You walked out. And you fucking knew you owed me rent. Owed me thanks for taking _care of you_ when you walked out on your boyfriend."

Kady knitted her brows, putting her hand up. "It doesn't matter what you think she owes you. She doesn't owe you shit."

"She's happy. She's living with me still—and she never gave up her lease even when she was staying with you. Legally, she doesn't owe you shit," Quentin said. "Just leave her alone." 

Julia was still quietly crying, and Quentin slipped his arm around her, shuffling her back towards one of the sofas, away from Marina. 

"Oh, you're just going to let your bitch boy do your dirty work for you?" Marina's voice was cool and deliberate. "He's just a loser hanging around in your shadow, clinging onto you and begging for scraps. Captain Downward Spiral is just waiting for you to pick up the pieces when he goes off the deep end again." 

Quentin huffed and rolled his eyes. "'Captain Downward Spiral' is a new one. I'm going to have it printed on a shirt and then burn the fucking shirt alongside your, uh, fucking effigy, Marina." His arm was wrapped tight around Julia. 

Julia pressed her forehead to Quentin’s shoulder and laughed. "You're not—you know you’re not—a loser, Q.”

“Like most of the time, I do know that, Jules. But thanks.” 

He watched as Kady loomed over Marina, shouting at her now, while Marina hurled increasingly inventive insults at her, arms crossed, smirking. 

"Hey, I don't give a fuck what she says about me, Jules. Let's get you like, a glass of water and we'll—” 

And Eliot—Eliot, who appeared not to give a fuck about any single fucking thing, had Marina by the shoulders. "You know what? It’s very much time for you to leave. Kady told you to get the fuck out, so I think you'd better do that. Her boots—you know, I didn't know they sold these anywhere but RedWing or army surplus stores—but they actually have steel toes. And if you keep insulting her, I think she's probably going to kick the shit out of you. Now, I'm certainly not going to do that because I don't think my constitution mixes very well with a night in a jail cell. But I can't guarantee that Kady won't land you in the hospital. Okay?"

"I'll get out when Julia tells me when she's going to pay me back and apologize—”

Julia was shaking a little against Quentin—usually it was the other way around. She wasn't someone who _shook_ about anything. But Marina was fucking scary, and no one had rattled her quite like Marina had. 

"Oh, that's so funny because—” Eliot looked around the party, gesturing at Marina "--I want to have witnesses who saw that Marina was threatening my friends."

"You fucking bet I did," Margo said, shaking her phone. "I got video."

"Great," Eliot said. And then he fucking hoisted Marina up over his shoulder and calmly walked to the front door. Marina, too dazed at first to respond, started kicking and screaming a beat too late--Eliot had already finished his trek. Margo had followed Eliot, sashaying ahead of him and opening the door. Eliot carried Marina down the steps and deposited her somewhere outside--Quentin could hear her shouting in the night. He loped back into the house, slamming the door behind him, theatrically brushing his hands together. There was a pause--the only sound was the dim droning of music from somewhere upstairs. And then the party erupted in cheers--whoops and shouts. Eliot picked up Margo and swung her around. 

Fen was beet-red, standing to the side. "She's in my critical theory seminar. I'm so sorry—”

Margo laughed. "Well, shit. Now you know she's a bitch, baby. You're just too nice for your own good. You need me to approve your choices, okay? Don't add anyone to the invite without me, okay?" 

Eliot caught Quentin's eye--and Quentin expected him to wink or give him a big, toothy grin. But instead he actually looked--worried, maybe. Eliot raised a finger like he was telling Quentin to _hold on_ (for what?), and Quentin watched as he went to work making more drinks. 

Julia, still sniffing, had mostly stilled, her breathing closer to normal now. "You know," she said, "I think I like him."

Quentin let out a little laugh. He’d thought Eliot couldn’t do anything to make himself _more_ sexually appealing. And yet. "Yeah. I guess he's alright." 

“You gonna go for it?” Julia squeezed Quentin’s arm. 

“Uh. I mean. ‘Captain Downward Spiral’ isn’t totally inaccurate, Jules.” Eliot was throwing slices of lemon into the ever-present clear plastic cups. Classier than red Solo cups, he guessed.

“Not everything has an unhappy ending, Q.” She smiled up at him, still lovely even with tear tracks on her face.

He scoffed, still watching Eliot, still sort of pondering how hot a single person could be. They’d had a moment—and it had broken, and now, it was probably done. That was likely for the best. “Like, have you met me?” 

Eliot made his way back to them with an actual silver _tray_ full of drinks, doling them out to Kady and Julia first. 

"Thanks, Eliot," Kady said, taking her drink. Her voice was a little _cracked_ , full of emotion. She cuffed him on the shoulder, and he smiled at her, his expression fond. 

"I always enjoy making a scene. Daddy enjoys a little drama. So the thanks definitely goes to you two." He glanced at Quentin and gave him a smile, his expression soft.

She broke into a big smile. "You're such an ass," she said affectionately. Kady took the tray of drinks from Eliot and put it down on top of the bookshelf-bar. She drew him into a hug, rocking back and forth. 

"Hey," Eliot said, voice soft. "Hey—I was just—”

And Julia—who hardly knew Eliot—broke free from Quentin's grip and threw herself into the hug, rocking alongside Kady. "Seriously," Julia said, pulling back and taking Kady's hand. "You know, I can usually handle Marina myself but—she caught me off guard."

"Oh, honey, I absolutely know you could fuck her up. You're a—” He put his hands on her shoulders, looking down at Julia, his family, the person he'd just stood up for. “—hm, a Tasmanian devil. Tiny and adorable at first glance, but I know all you really wanna do is fuck shit up. I could have easily left the both of you to deal with that bottle-blond ginger bitch—”

"Don't bleach-shame," Margo said. She took one of the drinks and handed it to Quentin, patting him absently on the arm and drawing in close to him. "He'll throw you over his shoulder too if you want him to, sweetie."

Quentin's cheeks went hot, eyes darting to the ground and back to Eliot, who _winked_ at him. "Oh, _wow_. Um. Yeah I think I’m like. Heavier than Marina.”

“Not by much,” Margo said. She looked him up and down. “You’re just a little snack, aren’t you?”

Quentin tugged at his hair, thinking he had to outweigh Margo by like, at least thirty pounds. Forty on a good day. She was one to talk. He tipped his drink back and watched Eliot as he held court, all curls and quips, the center of attention after his display of bravado. Just how he liked it, Quentin suspected. 

He kissed Margo on the cheek. “Bambi, you'll give the child a heart attack.”

“Jesus Christ,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I’m not a child. I hate all of you.” 

When Eliot made his way back to Quentin, he casually placed a fresh drink in his hand, switching out the empty cup of ice he was holding. “If you have this fifth drink—I think you’ll dance with me.”

“Hm, I—” He took a sip. “—was there a question there? Wait, though. Even if there is—I am a like. Tragically shitty dancer. So that’s a probably not. But.”

“But what?”

“But you know. I do like you.” 

Eliot smiled, bright, and it was just—everything right and wonderful with the world. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“So. Stay and entertain me.”

“That’s what I’m good for?”

“Exactly.” 

“Okay.”

“So that’s a date? It’s like a date?”

Quentin bit down on a smile. “No. I’m still not— _no._ But. It’s a—maybe I’m considering it.”

“Maybe. I like it.”

Quentin snorted. “Fine, just. Keep the drinks going. I’ll be entertaining.” 

“I do have—a select few gummy bears with—well, it’s _decriminalized_ , and technically, it is medicinal.”

Quentin was laughing. “Sounds like a really, truly—just—terrible idea. So—yeah. I’ll take one.” The edges of everything got fuzzy after that, fading out and focusing only on Eliot.


	11. I am a gentleman of Verona, sir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot wakes up with a hard... situation.

~Eliot~

It was six in the morning, or just about, when Eliot woke up with a start. His head was throbbing, and the inside of his mouth was dry. It tasted like gummy bears. And weed. Fuck. Fucking Josh and his fucking gummy bears. Goddamn. Hadn’t Quentin said that it was a terrible idea? It was. That whole party had been like a nightmare out of a fucking after school special with Kady screaming and Julia crying, and Marina cursing up at him from the sidewalk outside. He thought Quentin or Kady might have actually thrown a punch if he hadn’t scooped Marina up. And then Marina would have kicked their ass because Marina was an absolute dick and probably had a black belt in some form of evil martial art only taught to assassins or boss-ass bitches with vendettas against their ex-girlfriends and adorable, puppy-like roommates.

 _So_ adorable.

The party had been exquisite—as perfect as the end of a party can be—after he’d deposited Marina where she belonged: next to the fucking recycling. Quentin had babbled at him for—he didn’t know how long—hours, maybe. Talking about his poetry elective and Eliot’s costuming for _The Tempest_ , and it was all just… well, Eliot hadn’t felt like that in a long time. Maybe ever? He didn’t want to ponder that. It was… super goddamn early, and he’d only been asleep for like, two hours. Why the fuck was he awake?

Eliot groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. He wished he had like, a hangover cure. He felt like Harry Potter probably had some shit that washed the body clean of drugs and alcohol. He could use that right about now—something to take the dizzy, dry feeling in his bones, the aches in his muscles, the profound feeling that his body was too heavy and tight. He needed, he knew, a Bloody Mary, three Advil, two egg and cheese biscuits, and a good fuck. He knew one of those was unlikely, given that the only guy he wanted to fuck was super not into the entire concept of actually fucking anyone. That's what he _said_ to Eliot, anyway. Eliot could imagine it though; God, that was like his hobby nowadays, and he was really fucking good at it. He’d probably spent ten thousand hours jerking it to Quentin—so he was probably a fucking Jedi at it by now. Imagining Quentin, lips around his cock, his sturdy, strong fingers gripping the base. He'd say to Eliot, 'Oh fuck, El, it's so fucking big—I don't know if I can take it all.' And Eliot would pet his hair and look into those big brown eyes, tell him to take as much of his cock as he could because he was doing _the best he could_. Eliot was getting hard just thinking about it, about Quentin's lips and his flushed pink cheeks. 

He'd been so close to kissing Eliot— _twice_ —last night. The first time, they’d been interrupted. And the second, _Eliot_ had decided to be a _gentleman_ for some reason. Eliot knew why he'd wanted to be a gentleman, of course. He didn't want to take advantage of Q, didn't want him to regret it—not after, well, all the things that had been said. Quentin didn’t seem affected by it, but all the shit Marina had hurled at him had stuck with Eliot. So, no kisses. No anything. But Eliot had an excellent imagination, and right now, his brain was conjuring the delectable image of his cock sliding in and out of Quentin's spit-slicked lips. He'd be wet and messy and so, so into it. He probably lived for sucking cock, probably _begged_ to do it. Eliot would really like to fulfill that need.

Eliot thought he might be able to settle for some self-love instead of a good, hard fuck. He could think about slipping into Q's mouth, holding his cock there until Quentin was groaning against it. He could think of pressing, so slowly, inside of him. It had been so long for Q, since he'd been with a guy—or so he’d implied, and Eliot could _coach him_ , ease him into it. Use his fingers for a few nights in a row, lick him open, stroke him hard and ride his cock, make him come inside Eliot, get him all relaxed and sensitive. God, the possibilities were _staggering_. And Eliot was a total perv. And he did not give a single fuck. He rolled over and slipped a hand down to his cock, aching hard. He flung his arm out to steady himself and—

"Ow."

Eliot had his dick in his hand—under the fucking covers, at least, but that didn't mean his dick was any less _actually in his hand_ , and Quentin was looking at him, adorably bleary eyed, from approximately two feet away in his bed. And that was... a thing that was happening. Right now. The morning hadn't even fully started. Really, in Eliot's opinion, the morning didn't start until well after eleven on weekdays, noon on the weekends. Eliot had. His dick. In his hand. And there was—

“Um. Good morning.”

Eliot nonchalantly rolled onto his stomach and stretched, slipping his hand back out of his boxers. He was at least forty percent sure he hadn't fucked Quentin last night. He hoped that he would _remember_ finally getting Quentin into his bed. He closed his eyes against the dim sunlight filtering in from the blinds, trying to retrace the events of the previous evening from the end of the fight until he fell into his bed. With Quentin. There was alcohol—a lot. Josh's gummy bears, which was, _fuck_ , always a bad idea. Jesus Christ. And Quentin had been loose and smiley-giggly, and he _had_ almost kissed Eliot a second time, and Eliot had almost gone for it, with a theoretical vision of pushing him against the balcony railing and—well, he had several plans for Quentin.

"Uh," Quentin said. Eloquent. "I know you said I could crash in your bed last night, but um. I mean, I'm sorry if that's not cool, like now. I can go."

"No," Eliot said automatically. "Don't. You can stay." Eliot's cock was still aching hard, pressed into the fabric of his silk boxers, tight against the mattress, and when he moved a little, he could feel the pulse of arousal spread through him, warm and sensual. Quentin was staring at him, watching with interest. His hair was out of its elastic, wild and a little tangled, just like it was that first day Eliot saw him. He was luminous in the pale morning light. It was unreasonable. Shouldn’t be allowed.

He thought maybe Michelangelo could have captured something just as entrancing—the loveliness of waking up next to a beautiful boy in the morning, watching the sunlight flicker through the blinds, playing over his features. The slope of his nose, the dark curls of his lashes, his deep-set eyes, thoughtful and doe-brown. Yes, Eliot would remember if they'd fucked. His brain had been revolving around the thought for—what?—like months, now? God, had it been that long? He'd first run into Quentin at the coffee shop back in August. And he'd... indulged in some self-love that very night, thinking of Coffee Shop Boy and the curl of his lips, the surprise on his face when Eliot had called him 'darling.' He'd known, even then, how delightful it would be to see that face next to him in bed. And God, he really wasn't wrong, was he? Stunning boy.

"What are you, uh." Truly stunning until he opened his mouth, anyway. He didn't think that Quentin would be doing very many off-the-cuff public speeches when he got to the whole book tour part of his career. He'd need a good PR team to write scripts for him and drill him on the questions so he didn’t do the verbal equivalent of a pratfall as soon as he got on stage. 

"What am I what?" Eliot pushed up on one elbow. He hoped that his curls were falling across his forehead artistically. He liked to think they were. 

"I don't. We didn't." Quentin looked up at the ceiling, a furtive attempt to escape the weight of Eliot's gaze. "Um. What I mean to say is." He sighed, drawing it out into a groan and closing his eyes like he was pained. "I'm really hungover."

"Mmm, I know. You’re welcome,” Eliot purred. "You had a lot of fun last night. Seemed to, anyway." 

“I—uh." Quentin drummed his fingers lightly against the covers. “Did we… um.”

Eliot squinted, trying to place the events of last night in some kind of reasonable order. He remembered stumbling upstairs with Quentin and—had Quentin pushed him against the door? He had. 

_Quentin's legs were cradled between Eliot's hips, an alluring position that he had imagined, idly, when practicing his lines or rereading _The Tempest_ or when he was making dinner for Margo and Kady. Quentin had run his hands over Eliot's waistcoat, fingertips tracing down the lines of embroidery right at the seam. When he had looked up at Eliot, his eyes were hot, dancing. Full of mischief. And Eliot had known if he pushed, even just a little, he could have whatever he wanted from Q. He could get Quentin to lie back and make gorgeous noises while Eliot blew him, fingers working inside of him. An art, honestly. One of Eliot's finest talents. And then Q would beg to suck Eliot's cock; he was certain of it. He just had that look about him, and well, Eliot should know. He'd kissed along Quentin's jawline, deciding then that he was going to do it. Quentin, he knew, wasn't the kind of boy who would _actually_ date Eliot. That was the crux of it. It was a useless crush, wasn't it, unless Eliot did something about it. And he had figured this was the only thing he _could_ do. Quentin had sagely refused him... quite a few times now. Maybe enjoying a blow job with a follow-up fuck in the morning was just what they both needed. And then... friends? He hoped. _

_Eliot had rucked up Quentin's shirt, catching one of his rings on something at the hem of his shirt. It was rough and crinkly, and he'd looked at it cautiously._

_"Thrift Beat?" he'd asked, raising an eyebrow._

_"Oh, shit," Quentin whined, laughing and falling against Eliot's chest. "I bought this shirt so I'd look nice. I got it _today_. Fuck—that was my—my secret. I got it so I’d look… cute.” He was cackling, his fingers playing with the little chain that hung from his waistcoat pocket. He thought that his heart had actually skipped a beat at the closeness of Quentin, the warmth of his cheek pressed against Eliot's shirt, the scent of Herbal Essences in Quentin's hair. “I just. You know. I panicked. And I threw my sweatshirt in the trash.”_

_“You what?”_

_“But you liked it. You said I looked nice.”_

_His heart felt like it was being squeezed. The spell had been broken then, and Eliot had shaken himself out of his extremely shitty idea. He brushed a few fallen strands of hair out of Quentin's eyes. "We should get you to bed, Q."_

_"Yeah, yeah. Okay." He had still been staring at Eliot, intense, hands neatly on either side of his waist. “I like you. A lot. I just.”_

_“I know,” Eliot had said, sighing. “I know.”_

“No, nothing happened,” Eliot said. Quentin’s face fell, and Eliot had the bizarre impulse to smooth it over. “I’d rather you remember the experience, Q. I’m not a fan of sex both parties have a hard time recalling the next morning. Doesn’t line up with my concept of enthusiastic consent.” 

Quentin gave him a crooked smile at that. “Yeah. Guess not.”

He looked so sweet, eyes filled with sleep, his chest gloriously bare, revealing all that golden-hued skin and the smattering of dark chest hair that ran down the line of his belly. The whole of him just made Eliot want to _touch_ , endlessly. He thought of just keeping Quentin in bed, letting the day slip away around them. He’d work him up slowly, drawing it out, fingers and tongue teasing him until he couldn’t help but beg. 

Eliot must have been staring at him because Quentin quirked an eyebrow. “Did I try to kiss you?”

“Twice. We were terribly unsuccessful in our efforts. Pity.” 

"I think it would be fine if we—” Quentin's words trailed off there, and Eliot was just staring at him like a creepy fucking stalker with a boner. And this was—why did he think it was a good idea to tell Quentin he should sleep in his bed? _With him_? After he'd decided to actively _not fuck him_? Eliot must have been, like, very stoned. Okay, that was definitely a fact. And he was, in fact, still sort of stoned, which was—ironically, since it must have prevented him from pinning Quentin to the bed last night—contributing to the whole extremely horny hangover situation. His brain very slowly registered what Quentin had just said. 

"If we what?" He was trying not to sound—perhaps—too interested. But. There was a very cute boy in his bed he was supposed to be seducing for the sake of his housemate slash maybe-friend. And Eliot had gotten invested in the whole thing somewhere along the way. Who was he kidding? He came in invested, right out of the fucking gate. Pathetic.

Quentin's mouth was open like he was going to speak but forgot most of the English language—and that mouth, that _mouth_ was frankly ridiculous—all pink and tempting with that that stupid cupid's bow and the downturned pout that made Eliot’s remaining brain cells cease functioning. He was _staring_. And—he didn’t care. 

"If we what?" Eliot repeated. He reached out a hand, ghosted his fingers lightly over the side of Quentin’s face. No one in their right mind would call a jawline or the jut of a cheekbone _terribly erotic_. And yet. The whole of his being was supercharged with the pull of want, the crushing feeling of unmitigated need, filling him, pulsing out from his center, reaching for this lovely boy, bare-skinned and touchable and tempting. 

Quentin shifted and pressed into Eliot's hand, sighing with something that sounded quite a bit like _relief_ , like he'd been waiting for this, too. And he'd said it, hadn't he? He liked Eliot. He'd given him the 'it's not you; it's me’ speech. Eliot hadn’t believed him because—shit, there were a lot of things wrong with Eliot. Why wouldn’t Eliot be the cause of his hesitation? But he was glad he hadn't given up because—

“If we um—” Quentin surged forward and placed a small, clumsy kiss against Eliot's lips, warm and feather-light and promising. He pulled away quickly, too quickly, and Eliot almost didn't react—couldn't. He was too stunned, desire coiling within him—tighter, not yet relieved, wanting more. Eliot always wanted more; he'd often hated himself for it. But now, he was just tilting a little bit forward, cupping Quentin's face, thumb brushing over his bottom lip, lips barely brushing against Quentin’s. 

“Q—are you sure?” Eliot moved his hand to the back of Quentin’s neck, toying with the silky hair at his nape. He could feel Quentin’s breath hot against his skin.

“I just want to kiss you,” Quentin said. And Eliot was nodding—yes, yes, yes, he wanted that, too. He didn’t know how badly he’d wanted it until just now. He _just_ wanted a lot of other things, too. But this, yes, this would do just fine. Anything where he could touch and be touched by Quentin.

He tilted Quentin’s head back, pressed his tongue between his lips, tasting and searching, diving into him. And if he focused on this, just this, he could feel that hunger inside of him start to smooth out, radiate like the warmth of the sun that afternoon they spent in the park. It felt a little like falling—breathless and weightless and terrifying, when Quentin melted into him, yielding to Eliot’s touch, the guidance of his hands. He pulled Quentin’s chest to his, scratchy-warm and tender, his body wiggling against Eliot like he couldn’t quite contain himself, his little noises kittenish against Eliot’s mouth. And Eliot was—well, there was no hiding the fact that he was hard and pressing into Quentin’s thigh as they, very gently, very slowly fitted themselves close, so close together. One hand planted firm against the back of Quentin’s neck, the other, tentative, along the side of his waist. He had to exercise a supreme amount of self control to touch him gently, zero in only on the light movements of Quentin’s lips against his. He wanted to push Quentin against the mattress, strip off his plaid boxers and take him in his mouth, taste him. He shivered. There was time, and Quentin was worth the time. He’d waited for this—exactly this, this boy with his spiky humor and cynicism that belied a vast sense of hope. His soft, long hair and his pink lips, his earnest brown eyes, his lithe little body, dense with muscle and hidden strength. And maybe, he let himself think for just a moment, he’d waited for Quentin the whole of his life. 

“Q,” Eliot murmured, touching his lips to Quentin’s in a featherlight kiss, fingers tangling in his hair, satiny strands slipping over his fingers. “I like you so much.” That was a fuck of a lot more than Eliot had said to ninety percent of the boys he brought to his bed, maybe more than that. It could have been a side effect of _waiting so long_ for Quentin. Surely, that was it. This mountain of terrifying feelings had to come from somewhere, and the likeliest explanation was simple cause and effect. He’d been made to wait, be patient. All of the desire he’d built up, all of the chats with Kady about Eliot seducing Quentin, all of Margo’s little jabs, every chance encounter at the coffee shop where he admired Quentin’s ass in the line to get coffee… that had created something new and strange. And he was certain it would lessen with time or go away entirely. His feelings about his partners always did. For now, though, he was planning to enjoy it. Quentin shifted against him, putting pressure against his cock, and Eliot let out a little groan, gripping Quentin’s body closer to his. 

Quentin made a small, soft sound, his eyes half-closed, crinkled up at the corners. “Yeah?”

“You know I do.” Eliot carded his fingers through his hair—he’d been longing to touch it for months now, and Quentin was letting him, pushing into Eliot’s hand like a cat, all silky and smelling faintly of something herbal, maybe rosemary. Eliot had fucked a lot of pretty boys, but he hadn’t experienced this kind of build up and the ensuing relief of holding Quentin—his skin tingled from tip to toe, just from _making out_ and a little light fondling. It was fucking sensational to be tangled up like this with Quentin, limbs pressed together, not exactly ignoring their biology, but not really doing anything about it—just breathing each other in, limbs tangled.

Quentin took Eliot’s hand in his, threading their fingers together. He caught Eliot’s mouth again and pressed his tongue between Eliot’s lips, kissing him until every rational thought escaped Eliot and he could think only of touching Quentin, listening to all his wonderful little sounds and moving against the heat of his body. When Quentin pulled away, his lips were pink and swollen, and he was panting. He caught Eliot’s gaze and flopped down, burying his head against Eliot’s shoulder. 

“You should go on a date with me,” Eliot said. He kissed Quentin’s hair; it felt so smooth beneath his lips. 

“What? This isn’t a date?” Quentin’s voice was muffled. All Eliot could see was hair.

“No. I just woke up, and you were in my bed. That’s not a date.” He brushed his fingertips over the shell of Quentin’s ear and watched, enchanted, as he shivered. He kissed Quentin’s earlobe, nosed at his hairline. “Doing things backwards. Trying to take advantage of me.”

“You put me in your bed at like, four in the morning. Told me Julia was passed out on the couch and practically herded me into your room.”

“It’s a big bed,” he said, like that justified it. It made sense to him, at least. He hadn’t even touched Quentin’s _dick_. “Didn’t want you to go home alone. It’s a big city—anything could happen without Julia to protect you. Thought you’d be safest here.” He placed his hand against Quentin’s waist, rubbing his thumb over the divot of his hip. “With me.”

Quentin made a disgruntled noise. “You’re the very picture of chivalry.” 

“Oh, I am. I’d like to take you out and wine you and dine you and—” Eliot brushed the ever-present curtain of hair away from Quentin’s face. His cheeks were flushed pink, his mouth well-kissed. His best accomplishment of the day so far. 

“And what?”

“If you want me to tell you that, I’ll have to kick you out of my room first. If you want to keep this scene PG-13.”

“Oh. _Oh_. Yeah I. Can see that. Feel it.” Eliot felt Quentin’s lips against his neck, his tongue darting out at the crook of his shoulder. He made devastatingly sweet little sounds, nuzzling against Eliot, rocking his hips in tiny thrusts against Eliot’s thigh, his body rubbing against Eliot’s erection just—ever so slightly. This was—he couldn’t lie—weirdly working for him. It wouldn’t take much and—the situation was a bit dire, to be honest. 

“So that’s a yes? Let me take you out, pretty boy.”

Quentin moved so his dark, limpid eyes were on Eliot. He looked almost _guilty_ , like he’d been caught stealing Margo’s Cheetos, a look he’d seen on both Todd and Kady a fair number of times now. His eyes darted somewhere above Eliot’s head and then slowly moved back to his face. “I can’t.”

“You can just fall into my bed and seduce me instead, hm?” Eliot placed a kiss on Quentin’s forehead, rested his hand on his surprisingly muscled upper arm. “Looking so _alluring_. How can I resist?” Eliot brushed his lips lightly over Quentin’s just to hear Quentin’s little squeak, to feel his body go warm and liquid when Eliot deepened the kiss and moaned into his mouth. He knew if he worked his way down Quentin’s adorable happy trail, he’d encounter no resistance when he dipped lower and just cupped his hand between those strong thighs. It wouldn’t take much, just a little _shift_. 

But Eliot didn’t. It was off the table. He was going to take Q on a date. Kady was going to pay for it. Eliot had the capacity to _wait_. He didn’t date boys, not really, but he _wanted_ to take Quentin out. He owed it to Kady. He fucking owed it to himself, fuck that. 

He could see it so clearly—taking Quentin out on the town. Maybe he’d let Eliot get him _dressed up_. And maybe Quentin would want to fall into his bed again and let Eliot suck his cock. That was premium fantasy number one concerning Coffee Shop Boy—getting him to scream so loud that Margo would start pounding on the wall. He smiled at the thought and pulled Quentin a little closer just to feel him squirm. 

“I just. I made a deal with myself that I’d… graduate before I started dating again. It was bad. You—” Quentin cleared his throat. “You heard what Marina said about me. It was true.”

“She’s a piece of human garbage, Q. She’s not right about anything.” 

“Yeah, well.” He sighed, a little shaky. “Look, I know myself. I get attached and—well, I’m a little intense. I don’t date casually. Or, well. I haven’t in a long time. It’s not who I am. And I’m not sure you want that, Eliot.”

In that moment, Eliot was pretty fucking sure he wanted exactly that. Quentin, in his bed, whispering to him in the dark, waking up with the sunlight filtering over his lean, dense body. And Eliot could make him feel so fucking good, he just knew it. He could see it in his mind’s eye, so clearly. 

Jesus Christ. What was wrong with him?

“Don’t tell me what I don’t want, darling.” He traced his fingers over the slope of Quentin’s nose. It was such a nice nose. “I want to take you on a date. I don’t want to pick out curtains, but I’m not averse to the idea of something… intense. I have a feeling you’re intense in all the right ways—for me.”

What the absolute fuck was he saying? Had he lost his mind? 

Still, he just wanted to draw in closer, tighter. He could feel Quentin’s erection through the worn cotton of his boxers. There was a small bit of wetness he could barely feel where it pressed against him—which felt intimate and dirty and holy fuck, he could live off the image of Quentin riding his dick and smelling like sex and moaning like Eliot was the only thing in the world. Or just the idea of rocking against each other until they both came in their boxers. He’d never need to eat or drink or smoke again if he had just that. 

“I still—” Quentin started, but Eliot put a finger to his lips to stop him from saying ‘no’ again. He respected ‘no.’ He understood it. But he had a plan, and Quentin wasn’t going to ruin it by being a tetchy little shit with his anti-romance schtick. Who was to say that it would all go wrong? Quentin needed to at least _consider_ a different worldview. 

Eliot’s heart was racing. He wasn’t going to lose this, the taste of Quentin’s lips and tongue and all the things were meant to follow. “Look, I get it. I don’t really scream ‘guy you take home to mom and dad’—”

“That’s not—”

“Stop talking,” Eliot said. Quentin stopped. “Come to my rehearsal on Friday night. First dress rehearsal for _The Tempest_. You can bring Julia. Then we can go grab dinner. With the cast. Okay? Lowkey.”

Quentin’s eyebrows knit together, which made him look like an adorable muppet. “I mean, we’re friends. So that’s—”

“Let me be clear. This is not ‘as friends.’ This is a ‘boy I’d very much like to get back in my bed, but no pressure’.”

Quentin blushed fiercely, even though they were currently _rubbing their dicks together_. “Okay—I. Yeah.”

Eliot smiled and ran his fingers down Quentin’s neck, over the line of his shoulder and down his arm, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. 

Oh, this boy was delightful.

This was likely ill-advised.

And Eliot couldn’t give less of a fuck.


	12. A dish that I do love to feed upon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin gets a song. Eliot secures a date.

~Quentin~

“We go through this every time, Q,” Julia said. She brushed a piece of lint off his shoulder. “I don’t think he really gives a shit what you’re wearing. He’d just rather you weren’t wearing anything at all.”

Quentin blushed. “Yeah, maybe.” He looked in the mirror at the navy blue sweater that Julia—once again—had picked out. The gray sweater from the thrift store was his one accomplishment in life. But Julia was getting called in for everything else. That was just—her mission, she’d decided.“That’s weird, though, isn’t it? That he wants that.”

“You’re a total babe, Q.”

“Sure.” Quentin rolled his eyes. He _thought_ she was probably already dating Kady, but honestly, he wasn’t going to get into that goddamn minefield. Not on the cusp of seeing a boy who’d kissed him very thoroughly a few nights ago and continued to send him insanely flirtatious texts, tempting him at every turn. Eliot was wearing him down, bit by bit. And Quentin, starved for touch, for the attention of someone else’s skilled hands, was letting it happen. Utterly swept away, he had _no choice_.

Eliot had called him ‘pretty.’ And gorgeous. Beautiful. _Look at you,_ he’d said. _My teen sex fantasy, come to life_.

It wasn’t Shakespeare, but Eliot knew his words had created the desired effect. Quentin had moaned into his mouth and pressed into his touch, begging for more with his hands and tongue and burning-hot skin. He’d gotten to the point, irreversible perhaps, where his body was far louder than his brain. It didn’t help when Eliot called him gorgeous. Or beautiful. Wearing Quentin down, bit by bit. It was a little much. Too much. It gave Quentin the feeling of being light and delicate, like he might float away under the singing of such praise.

In his twenty-four years on earth, Quentin had never associated such sentiments with himself. He’d considered himself… plain, if he ever thought about it. He liked his hair, and he thought his eyes were nice. Alice had never called him ‘hot,’ or even ‘cute,’ and she’d certainly never called him ‘pretty’ or gorgeous.’ She’d said, once, that she found him ‘moderately attractive,’ her chin tilted up, mouth drawn into a thin line. After her statement, she’d nodded at Quentin like she expected him to take it as a compliment. Which he hadn’t. Obviously.

“Just accept it, dude,” Julia said with a wildly amused smile.

Quentin grumbled and tucked his hair behind his ears with both hands, scrutinizing himself in the foggy, cracked mirror in his room. He was… passable. “Should I wear my hair up or down?”

Julia rolled her eyes. “You’re like a nervous tween with his first crush.”

“God. You’re unbearable.”

“I _am_ coming with you. Per your request. Just remember that.”

“Only because _your girlfriend_ will be there behind the scenes.” 

“She’s not… my whatever,” Julia said, haughtily. “I need to convince you to come to prom so that I can go.” 

“That’s stupid as fuck. I’m not going to prom. No one our age should be going to prom. And you don’t need my permission.” 

“Why not? It’s fun. We get to dress up. Like old times—”

“I don’t like dressing up. Like, can I wear this? This is as dressed up as I get.”

“Eliot would like it. He’d probably bring you flowers.”

Quentin swallowed. He tied his hair back and then undid it, letting it fall over his shoulders. Julia had made him use some kind of hair mask thing, and it looked… soft. Shiny. “Eliot thinks prom is stupid. As much as I do. Or more.” 

“Nah. Kady says he wants to go with you.”

Quentin sighed. This was _so_ high school, the whole thing with the goddamn dance. High school was a _disaster_ , and he was a disaster _in high school,_. He hadn’t gone to prom then, and he wouldn’t go now. He was only just now considering _going on a date_. “Yeah, sure. You’re meddlesome. I expect Kady is, too. And let’s add—whatsherface—” Quentin snapped his fingers. “Margo. Eliot’s Julia. Yep. All of you. Meddlesome. Like—Bianca.”

“In _Taming of the Shrew?_ She’s just _boring_ Don’t call me boring. I’m not—”

“No, no, no. ‘Ten Things I Hate about You.’” Quentin tucked his hair behind his ears again, then untucked it, scrutinizing himself in the mirror. “The, uh—sister. That Bianca. Trying to make me _date_. Like I want to date anyone. Least of all Eliot.” It was easy to let the absolutely shameless lie fall out of his mouth. “Who—who—he like, probably has a _dark past_. Like he’s robbed a bank or had a career in porn.” That last one wouldn’t surprise him. Neither would the first, really.

“Q, you’re crazy about Eliot. Didn’t you two—”

“ _No_. Nothing happened. Not like you think.” Quentin had been thinking about the ‘nothing’ that had happened an awful lot, and he thought his dick might fall off from all the ‘thinking’ he’d been doing.

“So you’ve said. You were in his bed. _Overnight._ ” 

“Yeah. That’s been, like, established. We’ve been over this. We talked, and—and we kissed. And that’s… that’s what we did. That’s all we did. And we’re not, like, dating. This is not a date. And I’m not going to prom because I’m a twenty-four year old man, and I don’t need to go to a dance. We clear?”

“Crystal,” Julia said. 

Quentin pulled his hair into a bun, made a dissatisfied noise, and pulled the bun down again. He frowned. “What do you think—”

“Stop looking at your hair, Q. We’re going to be late.” 

Julia pulled him to the apartment door, where he nearly stumbled into the wall. The good thing about Julia? She didn’t let Quentin sink into his own bullshit. 

She was the worst. But also the best.

~~***~~

Quentin hated Marina for a lot of reasons. She was a narcissist, like _clearly_ , and like, possibly a sociopath? He didn’t know if people could be both. He figured she’d have the market cornered on it if it was a psychiatric possibility.

“Q.” Julia grabbed his arm and pulled him to the side right as they rounded the corner by the Shapiro Theater. “It’s fucking Marina. What the _fuck_ is she doing here?”

“Hey, Jules,” he said mildly. “She’s a theater management major. She’s just… here, probably. She won’t—see us. We just. We won’t talk to her. Bad things happen when we talk to Marina.” 

Marina was walking in the opposite direction, holding her camel-colored five-inch heels in one hand and walking in white sneakers with strange pink laces. The black suit she was wearing made her look severe—but she always sort of looked that way. She looked like she’d just had an interview or a meeting—or maybe she was just trying to be extra intimidating. She was occupied, not tuned in. She wouldn’t see them. 

Like a panther scenting its prey, however, she turned and shouted at them just before they reached the door to the theater. “Hello, little lost kittens. What? Coming to see your daddies with their garbage play? Not officially supported by the theater management department. You know, Eliot’s making all the costumes. Very industrious of him, don’t you think?”

“Excuse me—” Julia growled. “My what now?”

“Ignore her,” Quentin said. “Let’s go. It’s starting soon.” He tugged at Julia’s arm. For a very small woman, she was _very_ strong, and often _very_ frightening. He didn’t want to see what would happen when sober Julia faced off with Marina. And he didn’t have the money to bail anyone out of jail. 

Julia softened, letting Quentin pull her forward. Quentin’s heart was pounding faster than it probably should. 

“You know it’s so funny,” Marina started, voice dripping with sarcasm. He could feel those icy blue eyes boring into them as he held the door open for Julia. Against his better judgment, he looked back at her.

“What’s so funny? Eliot carrying you out of a party and dropping you by the, uh, bus stop or whatever? Because that _was_ hilarious.”

“Quentin,” Julia hissed. “Come the fuck on. You told me to—”

Julia’s voice was lost as Quentin met Marina’s eyes. She smirked at him. “Oh, you know. Historically, Eliot doesn’t see boys for more than half a night. Must be something special about _you_ , Captain Downward Spiral. But you’re really not all that special, are you?”

Quentin’s cheeks grew hot. She just—she couldn’t be—he _couldn’t_ listen to her about _anything_. “We’re friends,” Quentin said, the words almost sticking in his throat. 

“It’s cute that you think that,” Marina said. “Eliot isn’t friends with his fuck toys. He’s like _me_. Not friends with anyone unless they can do something for him. You can ask around. He’s had his dick in like, ninety percent of these theater boys. Always scheming to get the next one. So, what do you think he wants from you, Quentin?”

Julia grabbed Quentin and tugged him into the building, door slamming behind him. “Don’t let her get in your head. Okay, Q? Come the fuck on. We look out for each other. If I can’t engage with fucking Marina, you sure as fuck can’t either.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Sure. No one should listen to Marina,” Quentin said absently. It _was_ funny, wasn’t it—those were the things he’d thought about Eliot at first. That’s why he hadn’t talked to him even though they’d waved at each other nearly every day. 

But Quentin had been wrong, hadn’t he?

Eliot _did_ have friends. He cooked for Kady and Margo, according to Julia, to make sure they both ate more than Cheetos and bourbon. And with Quentin, he’d been—a gentleman. Close enough, anyway. He’d remember rutting against Eliot’s hard dick every day for the rest of his life, whether or not he got it in his actual line of sight. (It was big. It was _big_.) And now, he was properly, politely, respecting Quentin’s need for time and space, letting him think about a date during this dress rehearsal. He actually liked Quentin. He told him as much.

Julia pulled him into the mostly empty auditorium, which was made up to look like an island beset by storm—so unlike the courtly appearance of the stage for _The Taming of the Shrew._ Fen saw them walking in and waved toward them, a huge, guileless smile splitting her face.

“Come on over here! Sit with me,” she shouted. “You’ll want see Eliot in his costume. I swear. He looks so _hot_.” She was halfway out of her seat, waving her arms at them. He could almost feel Julia smiling at him, obviously taking pleasure in his misery. Quentin looked around to see if anyone was watching them—he wasn’t used to people quite as _loud_ as Fen. Or as boisterous. A lot of this whole ‘friend group’ thing was new to him.

“Sure thing, Fen,” Julia called, elbowing Quentin in the side a little as they made their way over to her. “Quentin came _just_ to see Eliot in his costume. He told Q it’s _edgier_ than most Shakespeare productions. Whatever that means.”

Fen giggled. “Yeah. Oh, yeah. It’s definitely _edgy_.” She said the word like she was testing how it felt in her mouth—or like she might revise her statement to put air quotes around it. “Eliot has been working, like, really _super_ hard on this. Totally broke but he’s been busting his _butt_ getting stuff ready for this production. He was adamant about full makeup for the rehearsal to give the ‘full experience.’ You’ll come again when we do it for real, right?”

Quentin nodded, a little dumbstruck. Marina’s words were still percolating in his mind, poking holes in all the things he’d grown to believe about Eliot. None of what she’d said felt true—it was more like she was describing some version of Eliot she’d seen through her selfishness-tinted lenses. She manipulated people to get what she wanted. When she saw someone else who was adept at bending the universe to their will, she assumed they functioned the same way. Ergo, her thoughts on Eliot—she must have directed all that vitriolic garbage at Quentin because she _could_ , he guessed, and he was associated with Eliot and Julia. And Eliot had dropped her on her ass outside the Cottage, locking the door behind him. It made sense. It wasn’t something worth obsessing about. 

He’d held onto the image of Eliot hoisting Marina over his shoulder, and he could push all of the other garbage Marina had to say firmly to the side—because now, the theater lights flickered off, and the music and lights came up slowly, revealing a revolving island in a set made to look like a storm-tossed sea, shadowy figures of fairies and nymphs crawling over the plaster rocks. The lighting cast over the stage was all cool blues and greens and purples with fuzzy edges that bled from one color to the next. 

Quentin had read _The Tempest_ at some point—not one of his favorites—but the way this group of students had created the scene—the shifting lights, the sounds of the rain and thunder, the eerie, lithe figures of silent fairies… it changed things, set the play in a new light. He followed the initial lines as Prospero and Miranda appeared on stage, placing the characters in his mind, recalling what little he remembered of his Medieval and Renaissance Poetics class. It wasn’t much, but it came back to him slowly as Prospero came ashore in this brave new world, brushing aside his daughter’s concerns about the magical nature of the storm at sea. He was weirdly drawn in—before, he’d thought of this play as one of the less endearing, more courtly, slightly bloated show-off plays in Shakespeare’s repertoire. Everything about it here seemed… deliberately unearthly, an exquisitely crafted window into another world. 

Quentin sunk into it—there was nothing he loved more than glimpsing another universe. Prospero, stately and arrogant, called to Ariel, and the lights went up on stage left to reveal the lissome lines of Eliot’s body, illuminated in the shifting blue and green lights, his face cast in shadow. When he stepped forward, Quentin’s stomach flipped. Costume and design had exaggerated Eliot’s languid grace into something ethereal, with his hair teased into exaggerated curls and dyed cerulean blue, a shade darker than the shimmering eyeshadow that covered his lids and brows, exaggerating the sharp, regal lines of his face. Eliot was incandescent, otherworldly—slender hips and long legs in skintight shimmering leggings, a thatch of chest hair against pale skin visible through a diaphanous organza shirt the color of clouds in a spring sky. His collar was adorned with a row of peacock feathers that framed his curls and the supple architecture of his neck.

“All hail, great master! Grave sir, hail! I come to answer thy best pleasure,” Eliot began, voice ringing across the mostly empty auditorium, lilting and lighter than normal but with the characteristic richness that turned Quentin’s insides to liquid. “Be it to fly, to swim, to dive into the fire, to ride on the curled clouds, to thy strong bidding task—Ariel and all his quality.”

Quentin was glad the lights were low because all he could do was _stare_. As soon as he’d picked up the thread of the plot and started piecing together what he remembered, he fucking lost every bit of brain power as Eliot swanned across the stage and stepped ashore on the storm-wet rocks. When Eliot-as-Ariel turned to face Prospero to request his freedom, Quentin’s breath caught—Eliot was adorned with silken blue wings, shot through with veins of silver, the material fluttering over his back, resting just above the jut of his hips. It wasn’t the weirdest boner he’d ever had—honestly, it was a perfectly reasonable response to the most beautiful man he’d ever seen wearing a costume like _that_ with an ass that looked like _that_. And Quentin knew that ass, maybe not super intimately—but he’d grabbed a handful of it through Eliot’s silken boxers when they were making out like horny teenagers in the back of an Oldsmobile. And that ass felt just as good as it looked—firm and round and muscular. He could write a whole sonnet about Eliot’s ass, followed by a villanelle about his hair and the delicate hollow of his neck. He didn’t know if his poetry teacher would appreciate the subject matter, but Quentin reckoned she might if he brought in a visual aid.

“Quentin,” Julia whispered, shaking his arm. “ _Quentin_. Q. Quentin.”

“Uh,” Quentin said, a little too loud. “Uh, what?” His brain was still processing Eliot in leggings and wings and peacock feathers.

“If you don’t go on a date with him, I will.”

Quentin huffed, eyes following Eliot as he exited at stage left. Now Quentin didn’t have anything to focus on. “Yeah, you would, too. Just to spite me.”

“Wouldn’t get very far, Julia,” Fen whispered. “Women in general aren’t really his thing. You’re very cute, so maybe he’d make an exception. But I think Quentin has captured his heart.”

Quentin rolled his eyes, trying not to smile. “Yeah, okay,” he said absently, half-watching the play and thinking about the feel of Eliot’s skin beneath his fingers, the scratchy-soft expanse of his chest hair, the roughness of his stubble, his springy, dense crown of curls, the taste of his lips. He was so caught up in his memories of Eliot that he barely noticed when the real thing appeared on the stage again. When Eliot stepped to center stage again, he was the only thing Quentin could see, and he could barely make out the lines Eliot was saying above the buzzing in his blood. He was the embodiment of sensuality, confidence, and poise. And he was looking right at Quentin, catching his eye very briefly but never breaking character. 

Upon agreeing to watch Eliot’s dress rehearsal, Quentin had agreed to give Eliot ‘notes’ on his performance. And Quentin, as the play wore on, knew that he absolutely would not remember enough about anything happening on stage, especially not the lines coming out of Eliot’s mouth. Because Quentin was staring at his lips, touching his own from time to time and remembering how Eliot had kissed him, his hands tangled in Quentin’s hair, the soft moans he made when Quentin pressed against him. He’d have to come back and watch the play all over again—what a hardship—if Eliot wanted any actual opinion on his delivery. Even then, Quentin would probably have to make shit up to avoid telling Eliot he was _flawless_. Wouldn’t Eliot know that already, anyway? 

Somehow, Quentin made it to the end of the play without spontaneously combusting. The curtain closed and lifted again to reveal the cast, Eliot at the center of the line next to Prospero, Miranda, and Caliban. The costumes were all exquisite—of course they were; it was Eliot who’d designed and crafted most of them—with Kady and Fen following his instructions. After the informal curtain call, the actors and crew were all wandering the auditorium. The director—or whatever you call someone in charge of a student play—had cornered Eliot, Kady—stage manager, he thought—next to him, and Fen was talking with Julia, leaving Quentin shuffling his feet like the sad little Charlie Brown he often was. 

Since the lights had come up, Quentin was attempting to appear chill—like not completely locked into leering at Eliot. He glanced over at him in his costume, the shining wings, the _leggings_ , and he looked down at the floor, and over at Julia, and then back again. And it was—it was fine. Quentin had a crush, and they were getting to know each other, and they weren’t going to rush into anything. Not that Quentin _didn’t_ fantasize about giving Eliot the world’s lengthiest blow job—but like, that was just biology. He was having a physical response, and—

Someone pinched his arm—someone short. “Ow—Julia—I told you not to— _oh_.”

“Hey, cutie.”

“What are you—why are you here?” Quentin crossed his arms—he felt suddenly exposed with Margo’s wide dark eyes raking over him. 

“Well, hello to you, too.” Margo sighed, a long drawn out breath, like she was drawing upon all of her reserves of patience to even be in the same room as Quentin. “I was backstage. Someone needs to handle that diva.” She gestured to Eliot. “He requires sparkling water with lemon between scenes. And no one else is willing to coddle that talented motherfucker the way I am.”

“Oh. I mean. I didn’t mean it that way. You just appeared—like, completely out of nowhere.”

Margo smirked. “Oh yeah? Would it surprise you if I said I walked down those stairs—” She pointed to the steps just to the left of Quentin, not ten feet away. “—and that I said your name—twice? Someone was too busy pretending not to stare at Eliot. Can’t say I blame you, but you really couldn’t be more obvious. Like it would be physically impossible to be more obvious that you’re completely blotto—”

“Blotto?”

“—over the mere _idea_ of fucking Eliot.”

Quentin’s cheeks went beet red. “I’m _not_. We’re _friends_.” 

“Yeah? I’m Eliot’s best friend, and he doesn’t spend four hours on a Sunday morning just making out with me. I mean—he _would_ if I asked. But you know, not _unsolicited_.”

“Um. I mean.” Quentin scratched at the back of his head and looked up at the domed ceiling, wishing he could shoot himself into the stratosphere.

Margo apparently wasn’t done. “You know who does make out with me on Sunday mornings? My hot girlfriend. I mean, among other things. There’s usually a lot going down on Sunday mornings. If you catch my meaning.”

“I don’t—um, I mean, I’m not thinking about you that way. Or her.” Quentin looked over at Julia, willing her to step in and _help_ , but she was still engrossed in conversation with Fen. 

“What? You don’t think she’s hot?” Margo flicked him on the shoulder.

“I didn’t say—ah—I mean, you’re both very—” Quentin swallowed. He _hadn’t_ been thinking about Margo and Fen on Sunday mornings, but now, he definitely _was_. “Attractive?”

“I’m just fucking with you,” Margo said. She put a cool hand on his arm, patting him sort of fondly, like a golden retriever she met in the park. “Back to my main point. Which is—Eliot. I know you two haven’t fucked. I would have either heard _about_ it, or I would have just straight up heard it. And I haven’t. So, what the fuck is your deal, anyway? Only straight boys turn down good dick like that. And honestly, not all of them do.”

“Good dick?” 

“Honestly the very best dick. You get it—you better take care of it.”

“I—” Quentin tugged at his hair and pulled it behind his ears with both hands. He was sure his whole face was red now. His ears and his fucking forehead and his _eyelids_ felt hot. It wasn’t like he wasn’t thinking of Eliot’s dick well nigh constantly (and his legs and his hands and his hair and his—everything), but he usually didn’t get confronted about it in public spaces. “Uh. Yeah?”

“What gives, anyway? He really likes you. I haven’t seen him actually like anyone in—” She chewed on her lower lip and hummed. “—in maybe a year? Yeah. About a year. And that guy was—just a bad mistake waiting to happen. But you—you’re very cute. And earnest. Props for trying to step in with Marina, btw. She would have fucked you up. But points for thinking you could.”

“Jesus. That’s just like— _a lot_ of information all at once.”

“Let it sink in. And get used to me, okay? I’d love having someone around the Cottage who will actually engage me on the Leonard Nimoy versus Zach Quinto debate.” 

A piece of the tightness in Quentin’s chest started to crack, and he grinned. “I mean, are we talking, acting chops—because they’ve both got it. As far as the character goes, I think Zach plays to different things than Nimoy did. He’s—you know—a like, young Gen X actor. And he’s giving the whole role like a very nuanced—”

“You are _adorable_.” Margo squeezed his arm. “I’m going to get you stoned and fuck with you about nerd stuff while Eliot sings the entire soundtrack to Hamilton and makes us crème brulée.” 

“Eliot sings?”

Margo gave him a delighted peal of laughter. “Well, you’re in for a real treat, aren’t you? Eliot _was_ trying to think of a way to convince you to go out with him. And Julia is very good with giving out little Quentin details here and there.”

“I’m in for a what now?” 

“A treat. Don’t worry, everyone you don’t know is leaving before we take you out to dinner.” 

“Dinner?” Quentin echoed. 

“Yeah, as a group. Don’t get your panties in a twist.” She took his arm and linked it through hers. “Ever heard of the concept?”

“Mm, let’s circle back to the—singing—or whatever. I don’t see how that’s related. And Julia sharing information—some of which I’m sure is _personal_ …” Quentin didn’t have time to finish his thought. He heard the distinct click of a microphone being turned on somewhere, and when Quentin looked over at the stage, there was no trace of Eliot anywhere. True to Margo’s word, most of the cast and crew had cleared out of the auditorium. 

“Hold onto your knickers, sweetie. Make sure they don’t catch on fire.” 

Quentin swallowed, his mouth dry, throat aching. He didn’t have the time to consider the breadth of humiliating possibilities before the lights went down and a spotlight appeared at the top of the island set in the middle of the stage. He could hear something happening behind the island, and he saw when Eliot’s lean figure stepped from behind one of the plaster rocks, still adorned in his costume but with most of the eye makeup and hair chalk wiped away. He was wearing a blue tailcoat over his wings and— _oh no_.

“This isn’t really—” Before he had a chance to say ‘my thing,’ Eliot had raised the microphone and started to sing. 

" _You’re just too good to be true, can’t take my eyes off of you._ " Eliot danced down the steps that had been built into the scenery—because of course Eliot _could actually_ dance. And _sing_ at the same time. " _You’d be like heaven to touch—I wanna hold you so much…_ "

“Oh, my God,” Quentin moaned. Julia snaked her arm around him, so now he was flanked by two stunning women while Eliot—who like, by law, shouldn’t be interested in someone like him—and _how was this his life?_

" _At long last love has arrived, and I thank God I’m alive—You’re just too good to be true, can’t take my eyes off of you…_ " Eliot was staring _right at_ Quentin, and he winked, kicking his foot out and strutting down to the stage with a flourish.

" _I love you baby, and if it’s quite alright, I need you baby… trust in me when I say…_ " 

Quentin swallowed hard, cheeks still flushed from Margo talking about Eliot’s _dick_. By that point, he’d been fantasizing about Eliot for like, _two hours straight_ , during which time he’d memorized the curve of his ass in those leggings. And now— _now_ , Eliot was serenading him. Eliot was singing to _him_ , right? There wasn’t someone else? 

" _Oh pretty baby, now that I’ve found you—stay—oh pretty baby—_ " 

Eliot did a frankly ludicrous turn and kick that Quentin couldn’t manage in a million fucking years. It made him dizzy just to think about it. 

" _Pardon the way that I stare—there’s nothing else to compare… the sight of you leaves me weak—there are no words left to speak—_ " 

Eliot leapt off the stage with a flourish, landing about four feet away from Quentin. " _But if you feel like I feel—please let me know that it’s real—_ "

Eliot stepped forward and put out his hand. And—sort of before he knew what his body was actually doing—he disentangled himself from his two very small captors and took Eliot’s hand, feverish electricity coursing through him, centered on the light touch of Eliot’s fingertips.

" _You’re just too good to be true—can’t take my eyes off of you…_ " 

As Eliot sang the last notes, his rich voice filling the auditorium, the few people left in the theater erupted in applause and wolf whistles. Quentin was—Jesus, he was hot. Like burning cheeks and maybe—slightly sweaty in weird places like the backs of his hands, and he had a huge stupid smile on his face. 

“Hey,” Eliot said.

Margo and Julia were both giggling behind them, and Margo may or may not have been making obscene gestures because there was a smirk on Eliot’s face when he looked behind Quentin, and he heard a peal of laughter from Fen, and a whoop from Kady.

“Uh, hi,” Quentin said. 

“Will you go out with me?”

“Like on a date?” Quentin was deeply, desperately aware of their friends laughing behind them, but he was doing his best to ignore it.

Eliot gave him the world’s brightest smile, all teeth. “Yeah, like on a date.” 

“Um, I mean. I really. I’ll have to get back to you.”

Eliot squeezed his hand, a tentative look on his face. “Oh yeah?”

“Oh—I mean. I’ll get back to you now. I guess—yeah, I’d like that.” He swallowed hard, looking into Eliot’s eyes and remembering the first time he thought about what color Eliot’s eyes were. He couldn’t have imagined this. Things like this didn’t just happen to him, not without reason. Not without some kind of disaster. But maybe for once, everything wouldn’t fuck up. Maybe it would just be simple—wanting someone, being wanted right back. The universe might just let him be, for once.

Eliot leaned in and kissed him gently, and Quentin didn’t even care when Margo started yelling at them to get a room. 

There was a boy in his life who made him happy, and maybe he could have this one good thing, at least for a little while. 

It could start by getting pizza with the cast, maybe another kiss. And maybe—he was starting to think—it might just be worth the trouble.


	13. Thy beauty, that doth make me like thee well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin’s dimples leave no man unharmed, and he nearly walks into oncoming traffic. Eliot’s too-fancy date is just right.

~Eliot~

Quentin’s dimples were a hazard to Eliot’s health—emotional, mental, physical. Any kind of health. Eliot had to work hard to get a real, genuine smile out of Quentin—it was getting easier the better he got to know him, but Q just wasn’t a smiley person. He was more… darkly brooding (which, for reasons Eliot couldn’t fully define, he found disastrously hot.)

But the dimples. How did one man’s face wrinkle up into so many little lines—dimples at the corners of his mouth, creases at the corners of his eyes? And when Quentin’s face truly lit up, when he beamed with pleasure, his eyes very nearly disappeared beneath his expressive brows, his features transformed by hazardously adorable crinkling. It was the best—the very best thing. Eliot lived for it, and he took every opportunity to poke Quentin until he lost his composure and let go of his perma-pout.

Getting Quentin to smile had become a side project in the arduous convince-Quentin-to-go-on-a-date adventure that Kady had initiated. Eliot had, at this point, sort of run with the project to a degree that one might consider unhealthy, if one were to consider such things. Eliot usually didn’t sit around considering _anything_ —save the one curl that wouldn’t settle right at the crown of his head. (That thing was a bitch.) And he wasn’t putting much thought into the fact that _he didn’t date_ and Quentin _didn’t date_ and neither of them should get involved, as Eliot was a frivolous theater major with a minor in seducing boys and making love to piles of cocaine—and Quentin was an obsessive nerd who wrote porny fan fiction and moped over lost love. (When Eliot _did_ spare a moment to think about all those Quentin things, he was ridiculously _charmed_.)

Eliot certainly didn’t sit around thinking about all the ways he’d inevitably fail at giving Quentin the things he needed—support and care and patience and time. He focused on what he could give to Q—a smile, a kiss, possibly at least one orgasm before the night was through. If Quentin was into it. (And he might be, given how much Q was already touching Eliot only fifteen minutes into their date.) 

“Hey, I asked you—” Quentin elbowed him in the side. “—where we’re going. And you spaced out. I mean. I kinda want to know like—”

“I told you, Q—it’s a surprise.” Eliot stopped walking when they got to the next street because he was a normal adult human being and looked at things like stop lights and signs. Quentin, on the other hand, nearly walked into the street—even though it had been established he didn’t know where they were going. Eliot grabbed Quentin and pulled him into his arms, his clumsy inertia nearly toppling them. He tucked a piece of Quentin’s hair behind his ear, looking down at shocked brown eyes, tempting pink lips. “And I’d rather you stay in one piece while we’re out tonight. I like you, for one—and I’d like to prevent going to the emergency room. Not my favorite place to end a date.”

A dimply smile crossed his face, his eyes all creased. “I—well. I’m not exactly graceful.”

“Oh? I hadn’t noticed.” Eliot absolutely couldn’t help himself. He cupped the side of Quentin’s face and brushed his thumb over his cheek, down to the shallow valley of his _dimple_. 

“What’s your favorite place?”

“Hm? For what?” He looked Quentin over—Eliot couldn’t have been more obvious about his extreme thirst for this boy, but he was out of fucks to give. Quentin was wearing that precious gray sweater and the shirt that had the _tag_ on it. He was tempted to casually rest his hand at the small of Quentin’s back to see if it was still there. His ass looked like a treat in the dark-wash jeans that Julia had probably thrown at him on the way out the door. Fuck, he was a _delight_.

“Your favorite place to end a date?” 

“Hm? Oh. You’ll have to wait and find out. If we survive that long.” It was a slight risk but—fuck it. He pressed his lips to Quentin’s, the barest hint of a kiss. Suitable for general audiences. Not in the least bit scandalous. But it had the intended effect. Quentin’s cheeks went pink, and he ducked his head, a shy little dip. Eliot caught his chin and kissed him again, just for good measure. 

“Hey. I just. I’m not great at, like—uh.” Quentin scratched the back of his neck, eyebrows furrowed. 

“Walking?” Eliot tried. “Not running headlong into traffic?”

“Well.” Quentin’s blush was a little brighter. “I was going to say ‘noticing my surroundings.’ But. Anyway. I’m sorry.” He looked up at Eliot with those devastatingly earnest eyes, all sweet and sensitive. 

“No apologies, Q. I’ll make sure you don’t get run over by an Uber. Or have a tangle with a bike messenger. I’ll take care of you.”

Quentin pressed his head against Eliot’s shoulder, obviously unaware that there were throngs of people passing around them. He made a little grumbly noise and— _God_ , now that Eliot had him on a date, Quentin was going to be easy, wasn’t he? He had an inkling that if he turned Quentin around and marched him right back to his apartment, he’d go without question and suck Eliot's cock down and keep at it for the rest of the night. But. Eliot had plans. And he was planning to take things _slow_ , was going to _make_ Quentin take things slow. In a relative sense. Not like high school slow, but the adult version of slow. Well. Maybe the Eliot version of slow. Slow enough.

“Shall we?” Eliot took Quentin’s arm because he was a _gentleman_ , and he was wearing an impeccable ensemble—all shades of blue and silver—that just begged for him to have a pretty boy on his arm.

“Uh, yeah. Even if you don’t tell me where we’re going.”

“East Village. I’m not getting more specific than that.”

“Okay, I usually don’t—”

“Go that far? It’s a tiny island. One must take advantage.” Quentin let him take his arm, and they walked toward the subway without any further near death experiences. 

On the train, Quentin leaned his head against Eliot’s vest, and Eliot thought for about the thousandth time how Quentin fit him _just so_ , that he could put his head right above Quentin’s and tuck him into his body. Eliot had never had a super-specific type. He just liked boys—cute boys. But there was something about Quentin’s silky hair and his dense little body, all broad shoulders and slender hips in a miniature frame, that was _awakening_ things inside of Eliot that he had never accessed. That should have been quite terrifying, but the only thing he could focus on was the sheer prettiness of Quentin’s face pressed to his dark blue vest with the hand-crafted detailing. He'd paint it if he could. Put it up in a gallery.

“Hey, this is our stop,” Eliot said. 

Quentin yawned and pulled away, an imprint of an embroidered hydrangea on his cheek. He slipped his hand into Eliot’s—such a simple thing, a privilege he thought he’d never live long enough to earn—and they walked together up the stairs and out into the crisp night. 

“So you’re still not going to tell me?”

“Not when we’re almost there, no.” Quentin’s hand was warm in his. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d held a boy’s _hand_ —in public, no less. Maybe—maybe eighteen months. It might have been with Mike, just before everything between them had dissolved. He vaguely recalled that he hadn’t felt nearly as _safe_ holding Mike’s hand as he did with Quentin. Despite Eliot’s natural urge to protect and _care for_ Quentin (and God, he did actually need to put some thought into that, because that was new, wasn’t it?), he felt wrapped up and tucked in with Quentin’s strong fingers in his. The evening was chilly—the first threads of winter were winding through the streets of New York—but Quentin filled him with warmth, a sense of home even in the harsh streets of the city. 

“What if I’m _allergic_ to—I don’t know— _crab_ —or whatever?”

Eliot stopped at the street corner right across from the restaurant he’d selected—well, the one Kady had suggested since she could do things like go out to restaurants and afford food that didn’t come in plastic packaging. Quentin’s hand was steady in his. “Okay, Q. What are your food allergies?”

He looked down at Quentin, who was—adorably—biting his lip. “I don’t have any. But that’s not the point.”

“Let me guess. You’re the kid who found all of his Christmas presents in the attic and opened them all the second school let out for break.”

Quentin grinned and— _oh_ —Eliot just wanted to kiss him again. And never stop. Maybe dinner wasn’t the best idea. But the idea of getting Quentin tipsy and feeding him bruschetta had gotten Eliot through every rehearsal this week. 

“Yeah. I am. Guilty as charged,” Quentin said. 

“Well, we’re right here—Plado. It’s a tapas bar.”

“Fancy,” Quentin said, scrunching up his nose. “I don’t know if—I’m not sure if I’ve ever had tapas. It’s like—little plates of things?”

“You’re precious. And yes, it’s ‘little plates of things.’” Eliot tugged Quentin across the street and held the door open for him, watching his nice little ass in those jeans. He thought about grabbing it, but it didn’t seem appropriate for a nice date. Maybe afterwards. No. Definitely afterwards. 

Quentin was smiling as the waitress led them to their table by the window. Eliot took Quentin’s hand and traced little circles over his palm before bringing it to his lips and placing a kiss right over the pad of his thumb. 

Quentin gave him a shy little smile, slightly amused. “What was that for?”

“Because you’re pretty. And I like your hands. Quite a lot, actually.” Eliot held Quentin’s hand face up. Square-palmed, strong and sturdy, nails clipped short and neat. He pulled it to his lips again and kissed along his knuckles, eyes on Quentin as he shivered a little beneath the attention of Eliot’s lips. 

“They’re just—normal hands. I’ve never really thought about them. They’re not, like, particularly _pleasing_. Aesthetically.”

“I can think of a lot of ways your hands could be pleasing,” Eliot said, a grin creeping across his face. “And I think I’d very much appreciate the aesthetic. Might even take video for future reference, should you consent to such a thing.”

Quentin swallowed, and Eliot watched his Adam’s apple bob. He might have had the right idea when he considered shoving Q back up the stairs to his apartment. But—waiting would make it even better. When the waitress came by to tell them about the specials, Quentin cleared his throat and squirmed a little in his seat, his cheeks bright red. His brain had likely cycled through one or two of the activities Eliot had alluded to, and he could be on the verge of short-circuiting. 

Without letting go of Quentin’s hand, Eliot glanced down at the menu and back up at the waitress. “We’ll have a bottle of the 2015 Malbec. And we’ll start with the crispy artichokes, taro gnocchi, and the olive and cheese board. Oh—a bowl of fresh bread and the croquettes.”

“Certainly, sir,” she said. Eliot preened—this, obviously, was the life he was meant to have. He could ignore that the money _technically_ belonged to Kady. Or it had until approximately three hours ago. (Kady had transferred via Venmo, including thoroughly incriminating _notes_ instead of emojis. Fuck her organization; he kept telling her to put sushi icons in there.) Eliot, since moving to New York, had known that he was intended to dress decoratively, drink smooth red wine, nosh upon cheese and olives—all while staring at a beautiful boy he planned to take apart entirely later. 

“Uh. I.” Quentin swallowed again. Delightful. “I’ve never been on a date quite like this. I mean.”

“Oh, honey—we haven’t even gotten started yet.” The waitress appeared and poured a bit of the wine for him to sample. Eliot found himself wishing he could have a lapful of Quentin while he tasted the Malbec—maybe one day when he opened his own wine bar or cocktail lounge. He could have Quentin as his kept boy—Eliot could keep him squirming in his lap all night or give him a book and sit him on a barstool just to pout and look pretty while Eliot tasted wine and tended to customers. He felt a little woozy even considering it, the thought of parading Quentin around as his.

“Sir?” The waitress raised an eyebrow in the direction of the wine glass. 

“Oh yes. Just… letting it breathe.” Eliot took a taste, savoring the smoothness, floral notes at the back of his tongue. Things like ‘boys’ and ‘future’ didn’t often mesh in his mind—this was just a little anomaly of a fantasy. “Wonderful. We’ll take the bottle.” 

“I’m not much of a wine enthusiast,” Quentin said, eyeing the wine suspiciously.

“You don’t have to be.” Eliot reluctantly let go of Quentin’s hand and poured him a glass of wine. “I don’t know what the fuck a Malbec actually is.”

Quentin cracked a smile. “Yeah?”

“Not at all. Margo probably knows. She’s my culture consultant.”

“You seem plenty cultured. Like—way more than me. I usually make grilled cheese or ramen for dinner. Or Julia gets ready made stuff from Trader Joe’s.”

“Q, what do you think I eat during the week?” Eliot chewed on the inside of his cheek. What was he _saying_? “You think I have a steady supply of taro gnocchi? I’m not even sure how you get taro into gnocchi. Or what a taro root actually looks like. But it _sounds_ amazing. And special. I know how to cook because I wanted to learn. Not because… well, let’s just say, the only thing I knew how to make before moving to New York was a casserole.”

“I thought you were like, an expert at all of this stuff. Like that’s how you were raised.” Quentin paused for a second, and Eliot’s heart rate picked up. It wasn’t that he didn’t tell people where he grew up—he just let them assume what they assumed. Quentin took his hand, holding it, palm up, like Eliot had done with him. “But that’s not how you grew up. Is it? I mean. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

The waitress came by and placed a small basket of bread—fresh and steaming—between the two of them. It smelled, incongruously, like his mother’s cooking on Sunday morning. 

“No. I didn’t grow up eating tapas. I didn’t know what it was until I moved to New York.” He swallowed around the lump in his throat and laughed—a little broken thing. He bit his bottom lip to keep from spilling more maudlin details of his fucked-up home life. But the words burbled up from somewhere he hadn’t accessed in a long time—years, maybe. 

“It’s fine—you don’t have to—” 

“I grew up on a farm in Whiteland, Indiana. Which is exactly as cultured and progressive as it sounds. Corn. And cattle. Goats. Three older brothers. They all still live there. I’m friendly with one of them, and he’s the only person in the family who’s kept up with me.” Eliot stopped, letting out a rush of breath, heart still beating fast. He’d—how did he get here? This is not a thing he did with boys. But he hadn’t been friends with any of them, had he? Not before—whatever this was. 

“That’s—that’s hard.” Quentin squeezed his hand. 

“It was. There’s a lot I can’t talk about. That I just—there’s a lot.” He put down the bread on his little plate and looked at it, opting instead for a long gulp of wine. 

“Yeah. Families are complicated. I take it—they weren’t very cultured or progressive?” Quentin said the words carefully, like he was sounding them out.

“No. They weren’t. I ran away when I was seventeen. Crashed with a cousin in Queens for a while. Got into Purchase on scholarship. Waited tables. Dated older men who weren’t very nice. Tale as old as time.” He tried to make his voice sound… wistful. Or ironic. He wasn’t terribly sure he’d succeeded, but Quentin didn’t appear to care.

Quentin looked like an anime drawing of an innocent, serious little mouse, all big-eyed and sweet. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re—spectacular. Gorgeous and talented—you charmed me into a date when I’ve been avoiding like, bare minimum contact with anyone apart from Julia.”

“Any regrets?” Eliot said. 

“None so far,” Quentin said, a crooked smile teasing across his lovely lips. 

“Good. We’ll just have to enjoy our… upscale outing.” 

“Yeah, I mean. I don’t know what the fuck a croquette is, but otherwise.” Quentin shrugged. “I think I can manage.”

Warmth sparked in Eliot’s chest—like it always did when Quentin looked at him like that, like Eliot was the nexus of his attention, his fondness. Like Eliot was all he could see. He took another sip of wine, smaller this time. It was crisp and smooth—and it prevented him from saying, ‘You surprised me—you keep surprising me. I never thought I’d fall for you. But when you’re with me, I feel like I’m home.’

~~***~~

Eliot had watched a lot of boys get tipsy since moving to New York. Quentin was, by a wide margin, the most adorable. By the time they left the restaurant, Q was babbling about the erotic fan fiction he’d written in the Buffy universe. Eliot had—naturally—assumed it was Buffy blowing a vampire or whatever, but Quentin ‘shipped’ Spike and Angel—an exciting revelation—and he demanded Quentin read to him from his dirty vampire porn collection. 

“I mean. It’s not that dirty. I started writing it when I was like… sixteen. So I had no idea what I was writing about. I have some more recent stories—I mean, I _should_ be working on my projects for class but. Fan fiction is like stress relief. You know?”

“And some of it’s sexy?” Eliot slipped a hand around Quentin’s waist as they walked to their next destination. He was a bit tipsy himself, and he let his hand wander down and grab a little handful of Quentin’s ass. “Is it _explicit_?”

Quentin squeaked. “Hey—I mean, yes. Some of it. A _good amount_ of it is sexy. Like sixty to eighty percent.” 

“I require a dramatic reading,” Eliot said. “You pick the dirtiest one, and read it to me.”

“Oh, my God—no. Absolutely not. I’m—not at all. I mean. I don’t even read my like, real stories to anyone. And never—like, I haven’t even shared my account name with anyone. Not even Jules.”

“I feel like… I could convince you.” Eliot leaned in and nipped at Quentin’s ear, just to hear the frustrated sound he made. “I can be extremely persuasive.” 

“Why does everything that comes out of your mouth sound filthy?”

He squeezed Quentin’s ass again. “Because it is. It definitely is.” He snaked his hand beneath Quentin’s sweater, letting it rest on the small of his back, fingertips against warm-smooth skin. A strange thing to fantasize about, but Eliot had imagined it so many times—spreading his hands over Q’s back, covering him, gripping tight while he watched his cock slide inside. Quentin’s choice of subject matter was _not_ helping Eliot maintain his composure. “You’re the one who brought up your gay vampire erotica.” 

“It’s… you know.” Quentin glanced up at him when they stopped at a crosswalk. “Also romance. Happy endings for everyone.” 

“Uh huh. I’ll show you a happy ending.” 

Quentin rolled his eyes, but he was biting down on a smile, the hint of a dimple showing on his right cheek. Eliot kissed it, and Quentin sighed, barely audible. “You’re incorrigible.”

“You’re the one writing about tumescent members.”

“Jesus, no. I am _not_ writing about anyone’s _member_.” 

“You’ll have to prove it, then.” He held Quentin close as they crossed the street to the next impressive—well, hopefully—destination on Eliot’s date list. “Read me your favorite story about Spike and Angel boning—”

“I mean—I write more Fillory these days. The High King and his—you know what? It doesn’t—I’m not telling you. You look too fucking pleased with yourself.”

Eliot laughed, absolutely delighted. “I’ll stop when you do a dramatic reading—”

“I’m _not_ —”

“How about this? If you’re totally blown away by our penultimate destination—”

“Penultimate?”

“Yes. If you’re blown away, you have to read it to me. I don’t care if it’s vampires or high kings or vampires and high kings.”

“I feel like this deal isn’t going to—um, land in my favor. You know. Dinner was already like—top five meals since I moved the city.”

Eliot hummed happily and nosed at Quentin’s hair, pressing a kiss to the shell of his ear. He walked Quentin along a little alleyway lit by hanging lights, like something out of an old movie, looking at the numbers embossed on each door. “Ah—here it is.”

“What— _where_ are you—”

Eliot knocked, and the door opened just a little. “The password is _parchment_.”

The door opened wider to reveal a tall man with silver hair and dark eyebrows—and a well lit set of stairs with a sign at the top that read _Benchworth Secondhand Books_. “Welcome,” the man said. “I’m Thomas Benchworth—this is a members-only secondhand bookstore and literary salon, and your boyfriend here had Margo make an appointment for the two of you.” He blew air through his lips like he was thinking. “I’ve known Miss Hanson since she moved to the city two years ago. Never met her friend Eliot before.”

Eliot shrugged. “I’m ashamed to say I’m a Kindle owner.”

The man put a hand over his heart in mock pain. “Well, nobody’s perfect.” He gestured to the stairs. “It’s a salon night, so there’s whiskey and—a few writers are here.” 

Eliot wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen anything quite as captivating as the journey Quentin’s face went through as the words settled in. It was… well, to put a Disney scenario on it, quite like Belle entering the Beast’s library—definitely the cartoon version. Not that he didn’t have a massive thing for Dan Stevens—who didn’t?—but no, Quentin looked like he was about to burst into a song and have a dozen animated bluebirds land on his shoulders. 

“I haven’t even—” Quentin gulped. “I mean I don’t even—I grew up here—”

“You grew up in New Jersey, darling,” Eliot said, leading Quentin up the stairs and into the bustling room. “That’s why you haven’t heard of this place. Margo made it her business to get in with the literary in-crowd as soon as she moved here. You were writing fan fiction.”

“Oh my _God_. You’re never going to let me live that down.” 

Eliot kept a steady hand on Quentin’s lower back as they browsed through the store. Something about Quentin made him feel almost brutally possessive—like he wanted to keep him close and shield him from the Marinas of the world, wrap him in blankets on bad days, bring him tea while he buried himself in his books and his writing. Maybe it was the wine that had made him feel this way (it had to be the wine).

“Holy shit, lookit this—” Quentin held out a copy of one of the Fillory books. Eliot had the impulse to tease Quentin for having more than one copy of the goddamn Fillory books. But the way his face lit up was too fucking cute (and _hot_ ), and Eliot could reserve his teasing for when he wasn’t quite so desperate to get Quentin’s clothes off. 

“The cover art is… _lovely_ ,” Eliot ventured. 

Apparently it was an appropriate response because Quentin beamed at him. “It’s the illustrated edition that was released in the U.K. in 1981. Gold leaf hammered into the cover— _hand-etched_ print plates. Every copy of this is a collector’s item.” 

Eliot couldn’t help but imagine throwing the book against a wall and dropping to his knees to get Quentin’s dick in his mouth. But he nodded, humming in appreciation as Quentin flipped through the pages. After a while, he kissed Quentin’s forehead—and Q just smiled like he was expecting it, like this was a _thing people did_ —and Eliot extricated himself from the one-man Fillory circle jerk to look at old copies of Shakespeare plays. Eliot tucked one lovely book under his arm and flipped through a copy of _King Lear_ with faded notes from an actor who must have played Lear fifty years ago. He grabbed a glass of whiskey and sat, flipping through the play while he watched Quentin talk to a young adult author—tall, good-looking, clearly checking Quentin out—about the commonalities between fantasy and science fiction and how some book they’d both read was ‘genre-defying.’ 

He watched Quentin for a while—just watched. He was clearly in his element and blissfully unaware that writer-guy was staring at his mouth while he talked—his obliviousness was utterly darling. He was such a shy little thing most of the time, but here, he felt good just _talking_ , sharing little pieces of himself and completely charming the cute YA author. He could see Quentin in five years’ time, holding a book signing somewhere like this, chatting with customers and fans and showing off his dimples. The writer-guy touched Quentin’s shoulder, lingering for a moment, and Eliot shifted in his seat, fighting the impulse to invade Quentin’s space and put his hand on Quentin’s waist so Mister YA Author didn’t get any _ideas_ about who Quentin was going home with tonight. Eliot went and bought the book and plays he’d picked up, watching Quentin out of the corner of his eye and silently damning the YA author and his stupid muscular forearms. When Eliot sat down again, Quentin turned to Eliot with that dimply smile—like the guy he’d been chatting with for half an hour didn’t even exist.

As Quentin closed the space between them, Eliot could tell he’d gotten a bit tipsier from the whiskey, his cheeks deliciously rosy. “You getting anything, El?”

“Hm? Yes. Two of these plays and—” Eliot stood and produced the other book he’d picked up. “—I grabbed this for you since you’ve been taking that poetry class.” He handed the book to Quentin and watched as Quentin took in the title and flipped through the first few pages, a smile spreading over his face. Eliot had seen Q’s dimples maybe ten times this evening. Not that he was keeping count—that would be strange, creepy, some might say. No, Eliot had a rough _estimate_ , and that was wholly acceptable, he felt, regarding an important subject like Quentin’s dimples. 

“This is—you got this for _me_? Eliot, you really shouldn’t have—”

“Figured it was nicer than flowers,” Eliot said, looking up at Quentin, an angle he didn’t see very often. Quentin’s jaw was freshly shaved; the collar of his shirt looked like it had been pressed. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he flipped through the pages of the book. 

“I don’t have anything like this—this is—this is _beautiful_.” 

“You liked that illustrated edition of _The World in the Walls_ —”

Quentin smirked at him and cupped the side of Eliot’s face, running his thumb over his jaw and sending the tiniest zing down the column of Eliot’s spine. “You remembered the title.”

“I can’t help having a photographic memory. Helps me remember nerd stuff so I can seduce cute boys.” 

“Oh? Is that what you’re trying to do—with all _Shakespeare’s Illustrated Sonnets and Poems_?”

Eliot was past the point of playing cool—cool had left the building. Cool had fallen into the valleys of Quentin’s dimples. “Don’t forget I remembered the title of your favorite book—”

“How do you know it’s my favorite?”

Eliot pressed his lips into a line. “I have my sources. And I’ll point out that we had a fabulous dinner and—”

“You said this was, um—our ‘penultimate destination?’ What’s next?” 

“That depends.” Eliot put a hand on Quentin’s side, tracing the line of his slender hips, hand resting on his strong, muscular thigh. “I’d like to either—” Eliot hooked a thumb through one of the belt looks on Quentin’s dark wash jeans. “—take you to that chocolate place across from your apartment. And I can walk you home and go back to the Bronx and get stoned with Margo—or—”

“Julia’s out of town,” Quentin said. “I’m happy to get truffles literally anytime, but I have a whole box of fancy chocolates that Julia’s sister forgot at our place last weekend. And.” Quentin shrugged. He took the knot of Eliot’s tie in his hand and traced his thumb over the folds. “She’s in grad school in New Hampshire. We’re not sending them in the fucking mail. You should… just come back home. With me.”

Eliot managed an appropriately suggestive smile, even though his heart beat had quickened to a near-dangerous pace, and his brain had skipped over at least ten of the words in Quentin’s meandering proposition. “Why, Quentin—are you asking me to _stay over_? Honestly, so scandalous.”

“I didn’t—I’m _not_ —” Quentin stammered. “I mean, the invitation to _stay_ wasn’t included.”

Eliot’s heart actually _stopped_ —so he just wanted to—what?—fool around with Eliot and send him back home? He’d been kicked out after his fair share of dates, but was hoping this date wouldn’t be quite like that. “Oh.”

“No—I mean—yes. I mean, it’s implied. I was hoping you would want to stay. But no pressure.” 

“ _Oh_. Then by all means, let’s go see if that chocolate is stale.” 

Quentin laughed and pulled Eliot forward by his tie—which was mind-blowingly hot and absolutely not a Quentin Coldwater move. But Quentin was tipsy and just told Eliot he wanted to _get him into bed_ , so he wasn’t questioning any of the universe’s methods right now. Not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bookstore mentioned here is based on NYC's last pirate bookseller. [Read about it here!](https://www.nytimes.com/2019/07/26/nyregion/brazenhead-michael-seidenberg-secret-bookstore.html)
> 
> It seemed like something Margo would know about.


	14. Now, if you love me, stay.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin is a secret ho. He tells Eliot about it. A few things come up.

~Quentin~

“Most ill-advised hookup?” Quentin huffed. “What kind of question is that? I just—” He knitted his brows. His brain was already melting. Eliot had most of Quentin’s buttons undone, and he had his hands all over Quentin’s torso, scratching through his chest hair, kissing along his forearms and making sly comments about his body hair and how much he’d been wanting to _touch it_ , taste his skin. Fuck, Quentin was going to actually explode.

Here they were on _Quentin’s bed_ , Eliot’s hands all over him. Asking him about his level of _experience_ , which was probably nil compared to Eliot’s.

“I’m getting to know you.” Eliot nipped at his shoulder and leaned over to bury his nose in Quentin's chest hair. "God, you smell so good here." He ran his fingers up through the hair and tugged; Quentin let out an embarrassing little whimper, and Eliot chuckled darkly. Fingertips, featherlight, trailed over his ribs.

Quentin's foot jerked, and he drew in a sharp breath. “I—I’m ticklish there.”

“Oh yeah? Duly noted.” Eliot nosed into Quentin’s armpit, one broad hand resting on his belly. “Now, tell Uncle Eliot all about your filthy hookup. I know you’re thinking about someone.”

Quentin looked up at the ceiling, focusing on the peeling paint right above his closet. Probably fucking water damage. “Um. I—” He scratched at the back of his head, pulling the elastic out of his hair and slipping it over his wrist. “I used to live with Julia and James, you know.”

“And James is—”

“Julia’s ex. It ended badly. There was a lot of off-again, on-again bullshit. And I spent most of that time wishing Julia would finally choose me. See through all our history that I was the one who was there for her, and—whatever emo nerd bullshit. And they were on a break—”

“And you and Julia—”

“Oh, _no_ ,” Quentin said, mildly horrified. “Jesus, that would have been a fucking disaster—no. I—”

“ _Oh_ —this is the boyfriend you _liked_.” Eliot gasped. “ _Quentin_.” He gripped at Quentin’s side.

“I—yeah. They were on a break. And I—James and I hooked up.”

“So,” Eliot said, hand roaming over Quentin’s chest, a finger tracing the line of his collarbone. “Is he hot?”

“Um. Ex-boyfriend. He’s—yeah—he’s really hot. Kinda preppy.” Quentin’s sweater was lying in a heap on his bedroom floor, his shirt partially unbuttoned, his jeans unzipped. He wasn’t entirely sure when he’d come so… undone, but it must have been sometime in the past hour after Eliot herded Quentin into his bedroom, rucking up his sweater and pushing him against the door. And then Eliot was just touching him, all over, kissing and nibbling at him, Quentin’s mind spinning on a loop that was just _Eliot, Eliot, Eliot._ He’d accessed pleasure centers that Quentin had never even considered before. The spot just behind his ear, where Eliot had sucked and licked while his fingers played over Quentin’s chest. The back of his wrist, brought to Eliot’s lips, sparks traveling up the length of Quentin’s arm and kindling a bright flame deep in the cradle of his hips. The inside of Quentin’s elbow, deft fingers making circles over the valley of sensitive flesh, turning Quentin’s tight, anxious center to liquid. Buttons and zippers had fallen open somewhere along the way. Eliot had taken off his vest and tie, but the rest of his layers were still neatly tucked in, leaving Quentin feeling weirdly exposed.

Eliot turned Quentin’s head toward his and kissed him, open-mouthed, tasting of raspberries and dark chocolate. His thumb brushed over Quentin’s nipple, and Quentin _keened_ , a low broken sound. He panted as Eliot pinched and pulled at the pebbled flesh. “How’d it happen? This furtive little tryst with Julia’s boy.”

“We were watching a movie—”

“What movie?”

“‘Her,’ that movie with Scarlett Johansson,” he choked out as Eliot traced circles over the hollow of his neck and placed a kiss there, flicking out his tongue over Quentin’s burning hot skin. “And, um, Joaquin Phoenix.”

“Good movie.” Eliot latched onto a spot above his collarbone, sucking the skin until Quentin felt the tender ache of a would-be bruise, sending a spike of pleasure-soaked pain down through his pebbled nipples and the length of his hardening cock. “Did he pay attention to the movie, or was he paying attention to you?” Eliot’s voice rumbled against his skin, and he licked over the bruise, leaving Quentin’s skin wet and cool and smelling of Eliot.

Quentin threw his head back, panting, eyebrows knitted almost painfully. “James was still living with us during all this breaking up shit. But Jules was away and. He was—we were drinking wine—and he was like, moping and sad. And he kept scooting over—” Quentin bit at his lip. “—you’re sure you want to—why do you want to know this?”

“Because it’s hot,” Eliot said simply. He pulled away to look at Quentin. “You can tell me to fuck off literally whenever. I just asked you about your level of... _experience_ —and you drop the bombshell that you fucked your roommate’s ex while they were on a break?” He drew a finger up the line of Quentin’s thigh, and Quentin shivered. “That’s hot as fuck, baby. He’d probably been jerking off thinking about you for years. Ever since that college boyfriend. Since he thought he might have a chance.”

“Oh, my God. It was _not_ like that.”

“Have you actually looked in a mirror, you ridiculous boy?” Eliot ghosted his fingers over Quentin’s shirt, touching down along the row of buttons that led to his open jeans.

“I try to avoid it as much as—”

“Stop that,” Eliot said. “Don’t insult my taste.”

Quentin threw his hands up. “Fine. I’m just—it wasn’t like that.”

Eliot’s finger touched along his buttons again. “Okay if I undo this the rest of the way?”

Quentin nodded and watched as Eliot’s long fingers pulled his shirt open, and helped him take it off, hands warm and dry against Quentin’s skin. Immediately, Eliot’s hand was on him, rubbing up and over his tender, aching nipples, fingers scratching through Quentin’s chest hair. Eliot had told him how much he liked Quentin’s body hair, that it was one of the reasons he liked boys. And Quentin’s brain had nearly exploded. A guttural, animal sound wound its way up from his chest, and Eliot smirked at him, that smug motherfucker.

“Look at you. How was James not thinking about you every day?”

Quentin swallowed, trying to organize his thoughts. Eliot’s hands on him were hypnotizing, and then Eliot’s head was dipping down to his exposed skin, his tongue flicking out and over the sensitive skin of his navel, broad hands gripping his sides. “He wasn’t—I’m sure he wasn’t—thinking about me—”

“Did he scoot over and sit next to you? I bet he did. I bet he was hard halfway through the movie.” Eliot peppered kisses over his belly, up over his pecs, stopping to suck at one nipple while he flicked his thumb over the other. “He was thinking about it.”

“Jesus, Eliot. Fuck—okay. He scooted over and told me that—I was a really good friend—and I made him feel so much better—and then—then we were—we were kissing. And he was so hot—” A groan rumbled against Quentin’s skin as Eliot licked a trail back up Quentin’s neck, focusing on that same spot behind his ear. “—And I’d wanted him for so long. Since before he started dating Julia. And—yeah.”

“You touched yourself thinking about him?”

Quentin whined, nodding.

“Naughty Q. Clothes came off?” Eliot kissed Quentin’s earlobe, sucked it between his lips.

“Yeah,” Quentin said dreamily. He was hard now, pressing painfully against his jeans. He wanted to reach down and just—jerk himself off to the sound of Eliot’s voice, thinking about James, about Eliot.

“And then?”

“He—he went down on me.”

“Was he any good? Did he make you come?”

“Yeah, fuck. It was really good. It was so hot. I had my hands in his hair and—he obviously wasn’t very experienced but he was like—moaning. He was really—he was into it.” Quentin’s skin was thrumming now, all sensation focused on the places Eliot was touching him—a hand on his jaw, lips on his earlobe, Eliot’s thigh pressed hard against his. So unlike James, who hadn’t known anything, who admitted to Quentin he’d never done anything with a guy besides kissing his roommate at summer camp in the eighth grade. James said he’d fantasized about _Quentin_ , kept thinking about him, how _hot_ he was. That was the hot thing, how much James had wanted him. Eliot had told him the same, but there was no questioning that Eliot was an expert, that he could leave Quentin gasping with the barest touch. There was no awkward fumbling, no shaking and shuddering, none of James’ plaintive _I hope I’m good enough—tell me how to make it good for you, Q_. That was—good. This was better.

“Did you come in his mouth?”

“Yeah.” 

“God, yeah,” Eliot said mindlessly, his voice ragged. He kissed the top of Quentin’s cheekbone. “Can I touch you? I wanna feel you.”

“Yeah. _Please._ Please.” It sounded like a whine. Eliot’s hand was prying his jeans all the way open instantly, pushing his boxers down. He ran his fingers up over Quentin’s cock, swiping over the flushed head, pressing his thumb to the slit and wiping away a drop of precome.

“Fuck, you’re _so_ pretty. Look how hard you are.” Eliot traced a vein with his index finger, featherlight, watching. Quentin’s cock jerked, tender-aching arousal gathering low in his hips, sparks running up the length of his spine. “Did he slink off after that?”

“Uh. No.” It was hard to think. Eliot was kissing the junction of his neck and shoulder, his hand just resting on Quentin’s shaft, thumb pressed against the head, moving in small circles. Quentin shivered and let out a little gasp, watching Eliot’s big hand engulf his cock. Eliot started stroking him, gripping tight and sure, adding to the heat coiling tight in his core. “Ah— _Jesus Christ_. Your _hands_ —”

Eliot chuckled against his ear, kissing down the line of Quentin’s jaw and _licking his neck_. “What did James do after you came in his mouth? Did he like it?”

“Yeah—yeah, he did—he was hard when we—oh my _God_ , Eliot—” Quentin’s hips jerked up, chasing the hot-tight-smooth feeling of Eliot’s fingers. “When we—he slept in my bed—and we fooled around more that night and again in the morning. And that next night. We were alone for a three days—we did a _lot_ of fooling around.”

“Pretty Q. Seducing the preppy roommate. Did you fuck?”

“Um, no. He wanted me to—fuck him?—and—I felt like that was like—nggghh, Eliot—” Eliot was relentless, the pace of his strokes slow enough to be almost torturous.

“Go on,” Eliot said, moving his hand just a little faster, enough to ease another bead of precome out of the tip of his cock. Quentin’s mouth hung open; every bit of him had been set aflame, pleasure spinning out from his center like wildfire.

“It was. I thought. Not a great idea for a hookup with a guy who’d never been with another guy before.” Eliot had said they were going to take things slow, but this didn’t feel like any version of slow. Like they weren’t currently fucking, but it was insanely intimate—Eliot, jerking him off as Quentin divulged the details of a lost weekend, full of takeout and he hadn’t shared with anyone. Not Alice, certainly not Julia. Sharp crackles of pleasure coursed through him, sparking up along his spine, down his thighs—it was painfully erotic, his body and mind given over entirely to Eliot.

“You’re such a gentleman, Q.” Eliot nuzzled against his ear, pushing his nose into Quentin’s hair. Quentin let out a muffled groan as Eliot picked up speed, his ears filled with the brushing of skin on skin, the rumble of Eliot’s breathing as he stroked Quentin’s cock. “You went down on him?”

Quentin nodded, his breath coming in little gasps. “Yeah—I, yeah. I did.” His toes curled in the covers. Quentin’s hips lifted off of the bed, but Eliot kept the same pace—slow, methodical, patient. Persistent and _maddening_. Quentin’s eyes darted over to Eliot. “He got hard again—like right away—and I ate him out while he jerked off—” His cheeks were so hot they felt pained. 

Eliot let out a low, animal sound. “Dirty, dirty boy. You never told Julia?”

Quentin shook his head. He’d felt so guilty for _years_ —and so fucking turned on when he thought about it. And no one knew—no one but Eliot. And Eliot thought it was _hot_. If his dick grinding against Quentin’s hip was any indication. 

Eliot sucked at his earlobe, breathing hard and ragged. “I bet he went _insane_. Just look at this _mouth_.” He tilted Quentin’s head and pressed a finger to his lips. Quentin opened automatically, a high pitched whine slipping from his throat as Eliot's fingertip touched his tongue, tracing down to the tip. Eliot chuckled and kissed him, wet and deep and open, sucking on Quentin’s tongue and moaning, hand moving faster over Quentin’s cock, twisting the spooling core of pleasure within him until it was almost _unbearable_ , until Quentin was arching up up, uncontrolled, ruining any semblance of rhythm. Eliot gripped the divot of Quentin’s hip with his free hand to keep him still, _growling_ and nipping at his lips, jerking him off with brutal efficiency. Quentin threw his head back, and all of his senses turned to fuzz, vision whiting out at the edges. Bright wisps of pleasure rose through Quentin in waves, his whole body tensing. Eliot placed a tender kiss on Quentin’s lips and drew away, watching Quentin’s face hungrily. “I can’t _wait_ to taste you.”

Quentin screwed his eyes shut and _shouted_ , his orgasm hitting him like a punch to the gut, heat and light gliding through him as warmth spilled out over Eliot’s hand and onto his stomach. “Oh _fuck_ , Eliot—” His body tensed and jerked again, a low, broken sound drawn out from his depths, born of exquisite release and the paradoxical fear and contentment that came with being cracked open and _known_.

Eliot hummed, breath hot against the junction of Quentin’s neck and shoulder. “God. I wish—” Eliot’s voice was almost _unsteady_ , like something broken and hastily thrown back together. “I wish you could see yourself—like I see you.”

Quentin looked up at the ceiling, his head swimming. There wasn’t anything to say to that because—Quentin _knew_ he wasn’t anything special. People got pissed off if he said that kind of thing, so instead, he pulled Eliot into him and kissed him again, losing himself in the little prickles of the afterglow, in the taste of Eliot’s mouth, his sighs against Quentin’s lips. Eliot swiped his fingers through the mess on Quentin's belly, bringing a coated finger to his open lips and pressing it, salty and sharp, to his tongue. Quentin screwed his eyes shut. He was going to lose his mind.

“Let me clean you up,” Eliot murmured.

“No, I’ve—lemme get you off—” 

Eliot was already standing before Quentin could even move. Not that he could move very far. He leaned down and kissed Quentin’s forehead. “I’m gonna take care of you first. There’s plenty of time. Okay? You want some water?”

“Oh, um. There’s Vitamin Water in the fridge. And La Croix. You can have whatever you want.”

“What do _you_ want?”

“Uh. Vitamin Water. One of the purple ones.”

“Wish granted,” Eliot said. He strolled out of the room and grabbed drinks from the kitchen—like he was the one who fucking lived here—putting one on Quentin’s bedside table. “Washcloth?”

“Uh. Drawer under the bathroom sink. I can—I can get it.”

Eliot gave him a look and disappeared into the bathroom, reemerging and sitting down on the bed next to Quentin. Quentin went to take the washcloth, but Eliot shook his head and wiped the cloth gently over Quentin’s abdomen, pausing to press another soft kiss to his lips. Not for the first time, Quentin thought that he’d never been with anyone quite like Eliot—someone who saw him and wanted him, someone solicitous and careful and deeply invested in Quentin’s pleasure.

“You’re so sexy, Q,” Eliot murmured, petting over his arms, almost reverently. He tugged Quentin’s jeans and boxers the rest of the way off, folding them and putting them on top of Quentin’s dresser. Quentin, suddenly aware that he was bare-ass naked and Eliot still looked like he was going out to dinner, scooted up and burrowed under the covers, heart beating wildly. Eliot raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment on the panic that was surely showing on Quentin’s face.

“Thanks? That was…” He could say it was honestly the best sex of his life and it was, like, _sex lite_ , not even the full strength kind. But, you know, Quentin didn’t want to be fucking weird. “…incredible.”

Eliot smiled—a sweetly pleased little smile, a very un-Eliot smile. “I’ve thought about you so many times, what I wanted to do to you the first time I touched you.” And that was a thing Eliot had implied—that he liked Quentin, that Quentin turned him on. But hearing it like this—eyes focused on Eliot’s kiss-bitten mouth, pink and perfect—was like . “I knew I—I wanted to make you feel— _wanted_.”

“You did,” Quentin said, swallowing around a lump in his throat. “I wanna—I want you to stay. Will you—I mean. Do you still want to stay? Tonight?”

“Yes, I do.” Eliot undressed himself, giving Quentin a sly little smile. “I told you I was staying over—I’m the one who brought it up. I want to. It’s not like I—” He paused, humming thoughtfully as he slipped out of his trousers—holy _fuck_ his dick was _huge_ , pressed tight against powder-blue boxer briefs, wet at the tip. And Eliot was unashamed, hands on his hips, a thoughtful look on his face, the bulge in his underwear right at Quentin’s eye level. Eliot huffed, impatient, a little amused, maybe. “My eyes are up here.”

“It’s fine—you don’t have to—like. I mean.” Quentin blushed. They’d been on a nice date, for fuck’s sake, and he couldn’t keep his shit together. He couldn’t even manage to say the thing. Fuck, he wasn’t even sure he knew what the thing was.

“Look—I want to stay.” Eliot crawled back into bed next to Quentin, wrapping his long body around Quentin in a satisfying tangle. “My last relationship—my only relationship—was a toxic garbage fire. I’m not—without baggage. I haven’t been with—” Eliot swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I know I seem like I have a reputation. But I haven’t been with anyone since that night at the party—”

“When you hit on me shamelessly?” Quentin bit down on a smile.

“That’s the one. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I want you. I actually want to see… where this goes.” Eliot sounded surprised at his own words. Tenderness settled into the cracked center of Quentin’s chest, seeping into all the places that Eliot had started to tap open.

“Yeah, I—me too. I like you—a lot.” Quentin stretched his arm out to the table, taking his drink in hand—casually; he was being casual. He took a few sips, sitting up— _naked_ —next to Eliot’s long body. Eliot’s arm was slung low around Quentin’s hips. It had been a long time now since he’d been in bed with a guy—and Eliot was so much bigger than he was. Even his hand looked huge against Quentin’s hip. It made him feel so much—small, safe. Held.

There were so many words on the tip of his tongue. Life-changing, earth-shattering, fucking theory of spacetime-altering. Yeah, Eliot liked him. He’d given Quentin an opening, probably the biggest one he could manage. But Quentin was, or, well, he could be—terrifying.

When Quentin put his drink aside, Eliot tugged him back down, tangling one hand in his hair, the other wrapping around to squeeze his ass. “Fuck. I wanna—I’d keep you in bed all day. Tie you up and put my mouth—my hands—just all over you.”

Quentin’s stomach swooped, like he’d downed a drink far too fast, and it had just hit him all at once. He opened his mouth to say—something—but he just—couldn’t. What would he say? _Thanks. That sounds nice?_ Or _Keep saying stuff like that and I’ll tie myself to your bed for you_. Eliot crushed his lips against Quentin’s, pulling a little squeak out of Quentin, saving him from saying all the wrong things.

He melted into the kiss, opening his mouth for Eliot’s tongue and plastering himself against lean muscles and soft hair, hand searching out that big, lovely cock. Eliot made a low, keening sound when Quentin gripped him, pushing into his hand. Quentin smiled against Eliot’s lips, breaking away and placing kisses over the stretched-out lines of Eliot’s body, over pale skin and hair and navel, teeth catching on the waistband of his underwear. He pushed Eliot’s hip down, gentle, so his back was flat on the bed. He toyed with the band of Eliot’s underwear, cupping his thick, hard cock and—fuck it—he dove in, taking in the musky-dark scent of him just before he put his mouth on Eliot’s length, licking over the fabric up to the salty wetness gathered at the tip. The material was thin and soft, sliding easily as Quentin rubbed his face over Eliot’s crotch, sticking with Quentin’s spit against the thick, hot expanse of his dick. Quentin kissed the base of Eliot’s cock and hooked his fingers beneath the ridge of his underwear. “This okay?”

“Yeah, Q—but you don’t have to—if you want to—take things slow, like we said. So, yes. But.” Eliot’s voice cracked, letting out something wild and almost panicked. Eliot’s curls were riotous, his eyes bright, long fingers brushing hair back from Quentin’s face. And this was—it was all for Quentin, tonight.

Quentin pulled the boxer briefs down, exposing Eliot’s thick, long dick. It slapped against Eliot’s stomach, hard and curved toward his belly, pearly moisture beaded at the tip. “Fuck, Eliot—if you think I haven’t been _obsessively fantasizing_ —” He gripped Eliot’s cock, taking pleasure in Eliot’s shocked little breath. “—about getting this in my mouth, you’re insane. I want it in my mouth so fucking bad. Can I?”

“You want it in your mouth, baby?” Eliot brought a finger to his chin, his hand shaking, barely enough to notice. But Quentin had seen. "You like having your mouth full? Want me to stretch it out with my cock?"

Quentin nodded, opening his mouth.

"Be my guest, sweetheart," Eliot murmured, pressing his thumb to the bottom of his lip, pulling it down.

Quentin whimpered and took the thick base in his hand, lowering his mouth to the head and swirling his tongue over the tip. He took in the musky-alkaline taste, moaning as he sank Eliot’s cock into his mouth, taking it as far as he could—opening his throat—he remembered how to do this— relishing the low, reverent sounds coming from Eliot’s lips, the little rolling thrusts that he couldn’t seem to control. Eliot’s hands, tentative at first, twisted in his hair, pulling tighter as Quentin lost himself, cheeks hollowed, moving his mouth and lips and tongue, all for Eliot.

“ _Fuck_ , Quentin, your _mouth_ —you’ve been—holding out on me—”

Quentin groaned, his whole body vibrating with the sound of Eliot’s voice, with his praise. He could sink into this place, live here forever, in this collection of moments where he could focus simply on pleasing and being pleased, on Eliot and only Eliot. He closed his eyes, moved faster—wanting to get Eliot off and never wanting it to end, wanting to wrap himself up in Eliot’s crisp, clean edges, molding himself into Eliot's life. A sharp, tugging pain lit up on his scalp, and he looked up to see Eliot nearly doubled over, the muscles in his abdomen trembling.

“ _God_ —Q—I’m—” Quentin sank down and took him as far as he could, Eliot’s cock nudging against the back of his throat as he came. Quentin groaned, eyes rolling back in his head as the sharp, heady taste filled his mouth. He heard Eliot shouting, maybe, from somewhere far outside of him, his words distant as his hips thrust up, filling his mouth. "Fuck, baby Q, _holy fuck_ , gorgeous—"

Quentin didn’t have a _lot_ of experience—but enough to know sex normally didn’t feel like _that_ —like sparklers going off in his veins, like every knotted muscle had been pulled out of his body, stretched and flattened, then stuffed back inside of him. Quentin flopped on the bed next to Eliot, who curled around Quentin and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “ _God_. Where have you been hiding?” 

“Uh. Right here. Don’t get out much.” 

Eliot smiled against Quentin’s hair. He tilted Quentin’s head and pressed their lips together, light and tender. Quentin melted into him, and Eliot kissed him, wet and hot and open. Every touch—his teeth against Quentin’s lip, fingers digging into his scalp, their bodies with no space left between them—radiated with an almost brutal hunger. They lay like that for a long time, kissing and touching, growing comfortable with each other’s bodies, until Quentin reached to turn out the light. He drifted off, wrapped up in Eliot, and hopeful that maybe this was as real as it seemed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's your Quentin/James tag. It's my new favorite crack ship. Please let me know in the comments if I should write a one shot for these two. I'm into it. IDK, I'll probably do it anyway.
> 
> Big special thanks to Akisazame for reviewing draft one of this chapter and RedBlazer for reviewing draft two. Y'all are both amazing writers, and I am awed to be able to work with you. <3


	15. He is my goods, my chattels; he is my house

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot gets an offer and sews some wings. The girls play dirty Scrabble. Quentin gets a good fingering, some sushi, and a date to prom.

~Eliot~

“You slept over, and you didn’t ask him.” Kady narrowed her eyes. She held her cup of coffee like she was angry at it. She had her legs propped up on the heavy wooden table in the kitchenette at the theater, where they were all pretty much living for the time being.

“God, won’t Julia go with you? Aren’t you dating already? This is _childish_.” Eliot spread the blue silk of his wings over his lap, tracing a tear with his finger and starting the surgery of sewing it back together. Royal blue organza didn’t grow on trees.

“She’s got some mental block about doing this without Quentin,” Margo said. She ruffled Eliot’s hair, scratched her nails over his scalp. He shivered. _Quentin_ had pulled his hair this morning when Eliot had taken him all the way to the back of his throat, mostly just to prove that he was _also_ great at giving head, which—Quentin probably could have guessed without a demonstration. But Eliot wanted to make sure he knew. Especially if this was the only time he go down on Quentin. Which it might be. Quentin was—maybe not as hesitant as he’d expected, but life had fucked him up. Quentin thought it was his own _fault_ that he was fucked up. But it was his negligent mother, the shitty girlfriends when he was young and the shitty boyfriend in college. And Alice who— _well_. 

He’d told Eliot more about that particular mistake, how they weren’t right for each other and kept trying long after they should have let it go. It was the type of talk that usually made Eliot extremely uncomfortable, but it hadn’t, this morning. Quentin had wrapped up this little part of himself and placed it into Eliot’s hands; he’d trusted Eliot to keep it safe. And that had made Eliot… horny? He’d physically needed to get Quentin’s dick in his mouth immediately following his relationship confessions. He wasn’t sure what the fuck was wrong with him. _Honestly._

“Eliot—are you fucking listening to me?” Kady had Miranda’s dress in hand, working on resewing one of the side seams that had ripped during the last rehearsal. She was surprisingly handy with detail work, which made Eliot _almost_ want to forgive her for always harassing him about fucking _something_.

“Always,” he said absently. He’d added cream to his coffee this afternoon because Kady had bought some for the fridge at the theater, and it was a nice little treat to taste something rich and good. Last night—and this morning—had been _incandescently_ indulgent. He couldn’t be blamed for adding a little cream, letting that feeling continue. True, the cream would probably give him indigestion, but that was a problem for future-Eliot. 

“Liar,” Kady said, one corner of her lips pulling up into a little smile. “You look all dreamy. Like a big dork.”

“Take that back,” he said, but there wasn’t any ire behind it. Truthfully, he was just too _happy_. God—this wasn’t supposed to happen. If he paused to think about it, though, he wasn’t sure what the fuck was going to happen when he actually got what he wanted, accomplished the _mission_ that was seducing Quentin Coldwater. Hadn't he partially accomplished it? Was he done accomplishing it? Eliot didn't feel done. 

“I won’t. You’re ridiculous,” Kady said, snorting. “And I’m still _pissed_ about prom. Julia is—” She made a little frustrated gesture. Margo sighed, a little dramatic.

“Fine. I’ll bite. What’s so important in this high school drama llama fiasco?”

“You _need_ to ask Quentin to gay prom,” Kady said. For the eleventeenth time. 

“Fucking _why_?” Truth be told, he had returned to the image of Quentin in a suit several times. He had such a slim little waist and broad shoulders, and he looked like _porn_ with his soft hair in its little man-bun. Margo and Kady did _not_ need to know that.

“Because I _really_ want Julia to go. She’ll skip it if he doesn’t go. She’s still got—fucking baggage from that guy James. And goddamn Marina.”

“She feels safe with Quentin,” Margo said. She sat down next to Eliot on the sagging break room sofa. She pulled his arm around her delicate shoulders and away from his important embroidery work. 

“And you’re the captain of the emotional intelligence team?” He took her hand in his, examining her shiny nails, burgundy with silver tips. She was a goddess, clearly.

“No. Fen dropped that bomb on me and Kady when we were playing dirty Scrabble last night.”

“Dirty Scrabble?”

“Margo got seventy-five points on ‘cocksucker’ last night,” Kady said, smirking and shaking out the dress. 

“Is that one word or two?” 

“The drunker you get, the less it matters,” Margo said. “And Fen was wasted when she went off on her rant. Kady was being emo about Julia—”

“Was not,” Kady said. 

“Ooo-kay,” Margo said, drawing out the ‘o.’ “Anyway, Fen’s like— _friends_ with Julia now.”

“So are you.” Kady sneered but—sort of in a _friendly_ way.

“I’m not— _anyway_ , El. She’s had a real shit experience with people she’s dated. Like beyond fucked up. There was another fuckwad, too. That guy.” 

Kady nodded, looked away. “Yeah.”

“She feels safer with Quentin. They’re a unit. Like us. She _wants_ to go. She wants Quentin to go. And fuck—I wouldn’t mind it if we were all there. Together. Don’t quote me on that. And don’t tell my girlfriend. I’ll fucking cut your nuts off.”

Eliot groaned, leaning his head back against the sofa. “God, don’t play the friendship card.”

“It’s the only card I got, you silly motherfucker. It means a lot—to Kady. And Fen.”

Kady snorted. “And you’re clearly above it, Margo.”

“Exactly.” Margo nodded sharply. “I couldn’t give a happy dick about it. But I wouldn’t _mind_ , like I said, if we all go.”

If it were two years ago, he would have given Margo shit, made fun of her for the nice prom she’d probably had with her football boyfriend or whatever. Driving the Audi her daddy had gotten her for her sixteenth birthday. But he knew Margo better than that now. His prom had been fine—it was what it was. Kady and Quentin had conscientiously objected. Fen was ‘spring dance queen,’ whatever the fuck that meant. Julia probably had a nice time with her nerd friends while Quentin pined after her, dressed all in black, crouched on his futon reading Fillory books and moping. 

Meanwhile, somewhere across the country, Margo had been bullied and belittled because she was brighter and prettier than all the other girls, and her skin wasn’t the right shade of pale. So she hadn’t sat on her roof, smoking angrily like Kady—or writing weird little fanfics like Quentin. She’d gotten dressed up and waited for the guy who’d asked her, and he hadn’t come. So she just didn’t show, went to school on Monday like nothing was wrong. _And that’s why I’m the fabulous bitch you see before you, baby. I was fucking valedictorian. I lit my speech on fire and told every single goddamn person in that audience to fuck right off. I left that place, and I ain’t never going back._

He wouldn’t have believed her about actually lighting her speech on fire in front of four hundred graduates if she were anyone but his Bambi. He would have thought it was a metaphor. (It wasn't a metaphor.)

Yeah, okay. _Fine._ Fuck. He wasn’t getting out of this, was he?

“I’ll do it.” He cut his eyes at Kady. “I’m still broke. I’ll need money for an outfit—”

“Recycle some shit you already have. It’s not _fully_ black tie, asshole.” Kady smiled, though—just a little. "It's technically a semi-formal."

“—I intend to take Quentin out beforehand—he needs the black tie _treatment_. He deserves it.”

“Okay, Cary Grant,” Margo said. “We’ll make it happen.” She leaned her head against his shoulder. 

“Fine. Extra few bucks. For delivering on prom.”

“Deal,” Eliot said, mustering his most _dignified_ look. Now he’d have to worry about Quentin actually saying ‘yes.’ “I’ll need money to take Quentin out. Money to get an outfit—”

“No,” Kady repeated.

“—and a bonus for an extra date this week. I’ll need to do something special to get him to go.”

“Your dick is pretty special,” Margo said.

He’d texted Quentin and set up a rendez-vous the following night—not something they’d planned. The little smiling emoji Quentin sent in response, however, left Eliot not with a feeling of dread, but with a warm, fizzy bubbling beneath his skin. It didn’t even bother him when they saw Marina leaving the theater right after them. He just flicked her off with a little smile and walked back home to organize breakfast for dinner for these girls who simply couldn’t look after themselves.

~~***~~

Eliot was proud he’d made it to Monday evening without texting Quentin _too many_ times. Only ten times, eleven if you counted the picture he sent of the wing he’d been working on. Quentin didn’t know what it was because of the angle, but Eliot sent it mostly because it was a rather stunning shade of blue, and it was inspiring him at the moment.

And Eliot hadn’t been sitting around contemplating exactly when this had become a crush instead of a favor for Kady, who was now letting Eliot live rent-free on her lease. That’s what he guessed he would call it—a _crush_. He didn’t usually moon over boys for days on end. He usually didn’t text anyone but Margo (and sometimes Kady) just to check on them. He usually didn’t get a full-body endorphin rush when a boy texted him back. And he didn’t often have to stop what he was doing and jerk off after receiving a particularly suggestive text message that made him recall the pleasure of Quentin’s mouth. He guessed it was a crush--but he didn’t pause to give it too much thought at all.

He poured a little alcohol on all the worrisome, dangerous developments in the form of two Sunday-night gin and tonics, and he played a round of dirty Scrabble (thirty-five points on ‘felching’ did wonders for his not-quite-pensive mood). And when Monday evening rolled around, he acted perfectly normal when he arrived at Quentin’s apartment with a bag loaded down with his favorite sushi—many thanks to the extra money Kady had slipped him to spoil the shit out of Quentin. 

Eliot had kept it cool when he walked into the apartment. He’d coolly appreciated Quentin’s little man bun. He’d coolly said ‘hello’ and put the sushi out on the table, along with a little bottle of sake, lamenting the lack of real wasabi at most restaurants in New York. _Horseradish dyed green, Quentin._ And he’d teased Quentin the proper amount about ‘Blank Space’ blasting from his bluetooth speaker. Eliot could _absolutely_ keep his composure around Quentin Coldwater, the most adorable boy in Manhattan—maybe in all five boroughs.

Okay, Eliot _might have_ pulled Quentin into something like a fairytale kiss, holding him tight until they were both dizzy. And he might have—well, he _did_ push Quentin into his bedroom to demonstrate that Eliot’s manual talents were not limited to hand jobs. After all of _that_ , Eliot totally kept his cool. 

Now they were moderately full of sushi, and Quentin was draped over Eliot’s lap reading _On Writing_ with his tongue barely poking out, lost in concentration. He looked like a pretty little fae creature with his satin hair fanned over the arm of his sofa, despite the worn out plaid sleep pants and a _Lord of the Rings_ 'Mordor Fun Run' tee. He could really use some updated sleepwear—the nerdy-cute shirt could stay, but, if Eliot had all the money in the world, he’d get Quentin a dozen pairs of dreamy-soft joggers and a silk robe in a deep plum. He was darling just as he was, but Eliot could easily imagine spoiling him, wrapping him up, letting him listen to Taylor Swift and all the droning sad-boy indie music he wanted, watching him write stories while Eliot read his lines and design his own costumes. That was a… _thought_. Jesus. He hadn’t thought about an actual future with anyone, not like that. Not even with Mike. 

God, Eliot liked him, _really_ liked him, didn’t he? They were supposed to have a break after their date—in the interest of taking things slow. Kady and Margo had hinted that he needed to ask Quentin about the godforsaken autumn prom ridiculousness as soon as possible, so that was _why_ he was here. But it wasn’t why he wanted to stay.

Quentin stretched and put down his book. “You wanna watch a show? I like to watch a few episodes of ‘Adventure Time’ before I go to sleep.”

“Isn’t that a cartoon?” He buried his fingers in Quentin’s hair, massaging his scalp just to watch him shiver. Quentin’s mouth fell open the tiniest bit, and Eliot was tempted to pry his lips open, pet over the velvet of his tongue with his fingers.

“Yeah? But it’s great. I swear.” Quentin pushed into his hand, snuggling in closer to Eliot, his body all warm and sweet. "It's got a lot of complexity and heart."

“ _Fine_. But first—quick question—” Eliot cleared his throat. There was a swaying, empty feeling in the pit of his stomach as he searched for the words, a way to say them. 

“Yeah?” Quentin shifted so he could see Eliot, all soft brown eyes and parted lips. 

“So. I know you don’t have it at the top of your list—but I’d like to take you—well. Hm. It would be meaningful to our friends if we could go to the prom. Thing. Together.”

Quentin’s eyebrows raised, a micro-expression of surprise. “I—uh. You said grad school prom was bullshit.”

“I’m definitely not saying it’s not bullshit. Kady wants to take Julia—”

“Then she should take Julia. I don’t see what I have to do with anything. Julia’s a grown ass woman—”

Eliot nodded. “Yeah I know, baby.” _Baby_? Eliot swallowed, throat dry. “Julia won’t go without _you_.”

Quentin opened his mouth, likely to splutter and protest bitchily about Julia’s whole dating thing. Honestly, Eliot agreed with his argument but he was just the slightest bit grateful to Julia for having people-agoraphobia or whatever. Because he was here, asking Quentin to prom. Jesus. What had become of him?

“Wait—there’s more. There are reasons I was actually convinced to go for this. Margo won’t admit it, but she really wants to go. She’s got a… positive relationship for the first time in her life. She didn’t go to prom—don’t tell her I told you this—”

“Okay,” Quentin said, quiet. 

“—she was bullied. She thought this guy really liked her—and he asked her. And he ghosted her. I’m surprised she didn’t show up covered in pig’s blood just for the aesthetic.”

“I can’t imagine her being bullied.”

“I hope all those racist, jealous fuckbags burn in eternal hellfire.” 

Quentin took Eliot’s hand in his—and that was a good sign, wasn’t it? “I mean, ordinarily I’d say that’s, like, a little over the top. But I think it was warranted. She absolutely should have done exactly that.”

“Yeah. Honestly. My prom wasn’t exactly spectacular. Kady refused to attend on principle. And Julia—well, Fen thinks she really needs _you_. And I’d like to—have a nice time with you. And our friends.” Eliot ran his thumb over Quentin’s wrist. 

“They’re ‘our’ friends now?”

Eliot nodded and drew Quentin’s hand to his lips, kissing along each knuckle, rubbing the tip of his nose into the hair on the back of Quentin’s hand. He loved Quentin's stupid hairy hands and his soft, furry forearms. “Yeah. We’ve officially absorbed you and Julia.”

“Hm—and that’s _why_ you’re asking me to prom. For our friends?”

“I don’t feel bad playing the whole friendship angle because that’s how they convinced _me_. So that’s what I’ve got.”

“Romantic,” Quentin said. 

“Oh—I didn’t mention.” Eliot tugged Quentin up and brushed their lips together, pulling a squeak out of him. “I wanna get you dressed up in a suit that fits your nice little body—just so I can ogle you. And I wanna dance with you—”

“I can’t dance.”

“I’ll lead.”

Quentin made a low noise in the back of his throat, burying his head against Eliot’s shoulder and toying with the curls at the nape of Eliot’s neck. A little thrill ran down Eliot’s spine, heat coiling low in his hips, thighs burning. It hadn’t been—three hours since he’d tumbled into bed with Quentin. And just this—Q, snuggled in close—set his skin aflame with arousal. 

“You like that? I’ll dance with you all night. You’ll never have to think about a thing. I’ll make sure no one else talks to you if you don’t want—”

Quentin laughed against his shirt, a finger running up the buttons of his ivory button-down. “You’re getting to know me awfully well.” 

“Sue me for paying attention to cute boys that I like a fuck of a lot.”

“God. Stop.”

“No, I’m not finished—I’m going to take you home after prom and deflower you—”

Quentin was shaking against Eliot now, helpless. “I’m so sorry to say that a _few_ people beat you to that one.”

“Shh—don’t ruin my prom fantasy. I gave my first blow job after my prom—”

“Of course you did.”

“My date’s twin brother.” 

“Makes total sense,” Quentin said. He was clinging to Eliot, clutching his suspenders with both hands, and Eliot was feeling a little tender about it. 

“So that’s a yes?”

“Did I say that?” 

“I heard a yes.” 

Quentin grumbled a reply into Eliot’s shirt, still gripping his suspenders. It sounded like, “‘Hm, y’knowI’mguess, _Eliot_.” 

“Those aren’t words, Quentin.” 

There was a sigh, a little movement against Eliot’s shirt. He brushed a piece of Quentin’s hair that had fallen out of his bun behind his ear so he could see his sloped nose, the turn of his eyebrows, his pouty lips. God, he was beautiful. “Yeah, I guess. That would be okay. If I’m with you.” 

Deep brown eyes met his, open and expansive and vulnerable. How did he _always_ look so beautifully _open_? This was obviously terrifying for him—throngs of grad students in formal attire, dancing and drinking. Up until a week ago, he had stoutly refused Eliot’s advances. And Quentin had said yes, knowing all of this. _If he was with Eliot_. 

That in itself—that was terrifying, too. He didn’t say anything of the sort, though. If Quentin could be brave, he could, too.


	16. I know it is the sun that shines so bright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin gets a suit and too much attention. Eliot demonstrates his own oral fixation. 
> 
> See notes for more information on warnings in this chapter.

~Quentin~

“I don’t see why I can’t wear the suit I have, Eliot.” Quentin was standing in the middle of Thrift Beat, his arms loaded down with ‘occasion wear’—including several vests that Eliot said he could adjust to fit Quentin like a glove and ‘show off his waist.’ Quentin had mixed feelings about that. He hated formalwear, but if he _had_ to wear a suit—or anything, like, similar to a suit—he wanted to be exactly what Eliot wanted. And he wanted Eliot to look at him and touch him like he was something precious. He still had the sense that this was some kind of cosmic joke, that Eliot might be a hallucination. Something Quentin had dreamed up to distract from his bland little life.

“You’re dating a skilled tailor,” Eliot said, totally offhand—like he could just say something like that and not expect Quentin’s head to explode. _Dating?_ Eliot tossed another jacket over Quentin’s shoulder. “Plus—you said— _the_ suit you have. Meaning that you have one suit. When’s the last time you wore it?”

Quentin chewed at his lip, watching Eliot bend over to check the size of a shirt. He was watching Eliot’s ass because—it was really a feature that drew the eye. “Um. Maybe my aunt’s wedding. 2014?”

“So, nearly three years ago?”

“I guess.” 

“Where’s it from?”

“Men’s Warehouse.”

Eliot rolled his eyes like Quentin said he’d found the suit in a dumpster. “What size are the pants?”

“Like a thirty-three, but they took them in.” 

Eliot pinched the bridge of his nose. “For fuck’s sake. They probably look like harem pants on you.”

“Uh—they’re fine. The pleats were a little long but—“

“Okay, _stop_. We’re going to get you some real trousers in a nice material—if you still won’t wear a tux...”

“No.”

“Okay—just checking.”

“Yeah, no. No tuxedo. Just—not practical.”

Eliot shrugged, eyebrows raised like he didn’t see the point of belittling something impractical. That tracked. Eliot picked up a few crisp, white shirts that looked fucking identical, throwing them over his ludicrously long arm. He handed Quentin the three coats—also almost identical—he’d collected. “Fine. I’ll lament the death of that possibility on my own time. I think I can make something work with these options. Okay—” He clapped his hands. “You’re trying these on.”

Quentin stilled. “We can’t just pick one and like—put it on at home? They all look the same.”

Eliot sighed. “We’ll make it fast. I promise.”

“Fine. I hate trying on clothes.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Like, I _really_ hate it. Eliot, I—”

Eliot gripped Quentin’s shoulders. His eyes were devastatingly green today. It was stupid and cliché, but Quentin could get lost in them. He drew Quentin a touch closer and whispered in his ear. “I’ll make it worth your time if you’re good for me.” 

“Uh.” Quentin’s stomach dipped. “What’s um. What do you mean?”

“Try these on, and you’ll find out.”

“Oh. Uh. Yeah. Okay. I can—do that.” He had a sudden flash of memory—Eliot’s low voice rumbling in his ear, his huge hand wrapped around Quentin’s cock. He could be down with—a reward. Whatever that looked like. He wanted Eliot; he couldn’t _stand_ how much he wanted him. Beyond that—Quentin wanted to be _enough_ for Eliot.

_Play it cool, Quentin. Don’t do anything fucking weird. Don’t melt down. Don’t—don’t fuck this up._

Eliot’s gaze went to his lips, lingering there. “Good. You’re good.”

Quentin, buzzing beneath his skin, let Eliot manhandle him to the fitting rooms, his brain jumping and sparking, throat dry and cheeks burning. Eliot doted on him the whole time he was trying on clothes, telling him how gorgeous he was going to look, pulling his hair back for him and kissing his neck when they looked in the mirror at the coat-vest-shirt-shoes combinations. By the time Eliot had approved the first shirt, holding it taut at Quentin’s sides to show him how he was going to take it in, Quentin was trembling, each touch from Eliot sending fire through his veins.

“You’re so sexy,” he said. “You don’t even know what you do to me.” 

“Um. You. The same,” he said, flushing red and feeling unbelievably stupid. Quentin looked in the mirror and back up to Eliot, stately and refined and _powerful_ in his waistcoat and tie and cuffed skinny chinos. Had his legs always been that long? Or had he grown? He wrapped his arms around Quentin’s waist, kissed him at the junction of his neck and shoulder, nosing at his hair. 

Eliot kept touching him all over, brushing his hands over suit jackets and belt loops, pinching in extra fabric with his fingers. It was—too much and _not enough_. Self-conscious and on-display, Quentin attempted to calm himself, but his mind tipped and swirled, honing in on Eliot and all the things that Eliot _meant_ to Quentin’s life. He reveled in the pleasure of Eliot’s long fingers sweeping over his skin, the heat in Eliot’s eyes, the way he gripped Quentin’s hips. And he—he could lose all of this in an instant, drown in the spiral of that loss. He closed his eyes, heart pounding, the beat echoing in his throat.

He barely noticed when the owner came by and smiled at them, asking Quentin pointedly, “Was this the boy you were trying to impress?” (Eliot replied for Quentin, saying “yes” and he was already “very impressed” and they were going to grad school _prom_ , and she had fawned over them and given them a discount just for “being cute.”) Quentin made deeply embarrassed noises while Eliot bragged about how adorable Quentin was. _Jesus_. 

The barriers of his comfort zone were fucking shattered by the time they got in the line to pay. Eliot paid for everything in cash—which was—okay, but weird. And he didn’t even think to object. They left Thrift Beat with two white shirts (they were _identical_ save for a striped texture on one and a dotted texture on the other—and Eliot said one of them was ‘ivory’ and the other was ‘true white’), a black vest with a faint pattern of swirls, an extra blue vest because _come on Quentin, it’s cheap_ , a charcoal sport coat and pants that were somehow an exact match for the color of the coat but about four inches too long. Quentin had asked about ties—he had two ties, and Eliot had decried them as ‘tragic’—but Eliot insisted he wanted Quentin in one of his ties. Quentin would have objected because he guessed he needed another tie if both of his were so tragic, but something in Eliot’s face made Quentin realize that the idea of one of _his_ ties on Quentin was _doing things_ for Eliot, and he couldn’t exactly object to that, could he? He didn’t want to object to _anything_ , say anything that would make Eliot vanish, make the hallucination fade away.

As they walked the few blocks back to his place, Quentin felt like he was floating a few inches above the ground, fueled by a bizarre mix of raw desire and insistent, beating apprehension. Eliot carried his bags, his other arm slung around Quentin’s shoulders, intimate and possessive. And Quentin felt… weirdly spoiled. Not a bad feeling—truth be told, he wanted Eliot to take over, pretty much all the time. So this—this could be fine. He could maybe—do this. Be what Eliot wanted. 

Eliot tugged Quentin into his arms after they stumbled into his apartment, tossing the bags aside and kissing him, wet and hot and open. He tried to zero in on Eliot, only Eliot, tucking the worries in his mind neatly under a rug, sweeping them away to deal with later.

“Okay, baby—we’re gonna put these on again so I can get them ready for you.”

“Yeah—uh.” Quentin looked around the apartment. His whole body was hot, his center turned to liquid. He was pretty sure _sex stuff_ was on the table post fitting. Sex things. After the weird confines of trying on clothes. Another thing he could do if it meant that Eliot would touch him, would keep talking to him, telling him he was pretty. But—this was the living room. And Julia lived here. And she would be back—wouldn’t she? “Uh—Julia—maybe—” The words were sticky in his mouth.

“Julia’s at my place. I checked. I told Kady to keep her occupied. I’m sure they’ll figure something out.” Eliot busied himself in the kitchen, pouring two glasses of Vinho Verde from Julia’s stash, bringing one to Quentin and kissing him again after he took a sip. “Let’s get you sized up, okay?”

“Okay, I guess, mmpph—” Eliot was kissing him again, putting down his wine and taking his sweater off over his head, deft fingers undoing his buttons and sweeping his hands over Quentin’s torso. “Hey—I thought you were fitting me into these ridiculously long pants or whatever.” 

“Absolutely I am. I’m just feeling you up in the process. Can you blame me?”

“I can try to blame you,” Quentin said nonsensically, pawing at Eliot’s shirt. He smelled _so good_ , like rosemary and mint and citrus. Quentin wanted to bite his neck. “I’m not opposed to calling off the tailoring—”

“No you don’t. We’re getting this accomplished today. And if you’re good—” He unbuttoned Quentin’s jeans, teasing along the edge of his waistband with his fingers. “—you’ll get—well, you’ll find out.”

Quentin raised his eyebrows, trying not to betray how _weak_ he felt. “Fine. I guess you should stop _fondling_ and do whatever magic tailoring thing it is that you feel the need to do.”

Eliot reached around to grab hold of his ass. Shivering, Quentin stepped out of his jeans, arms held across his body defensively even as Eliot drank him in, his eyes dark and hot. “Pretty boy.”

“Stop it.” 

“I’m just admiring you.” Eliot petted over Quentins shoulders and down his sides, hooking a thumb into the waistband of Quentin’s boxer briefs. He’d ordered a pack off of Amazon after he’d woken up in Eliot’s bed, mildly ashamed of his worn-out boxers with the weird little patterns. Some plaid, some with little bulldogs with bowties, the Christmas ones with penguins. 

“Shut up.” Quentin rolled his eyes. His stomach was sour, and his heart hadn’t stopped beating like a snare drum.

“New underwear.” He ran his fingers over the fabric, down over the tops of Quentin’s thighs, rather dangerously close to his dick. “You have such strong legs.”

“Eliot,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Let’s just—measure—or whatever the fuck you have to do.”

“Fine.” He unhooked Quentin’s arms and put them around his neck, pressed a kiss to his forehead. “But you’re hot. I like looking at you. I’m not going to stop doing it.”

The roof of Quentin’s mouth was dry, his tongue sticky. It wasn’t just his cheeks that were hot—it was _so much_ —the tip of his nose, his ears, the splotchy flush spreading over his chest. His fingers curled reflexively into the hair at the base of Eliot’s neck. “You made _sure_ Julia was at your place.” His lips were pressed against the embossed texture of Eliot’s shirt, gold with raised stripes. He looked obnoxiously good in it. “And you stripped me as soon as we walked in here.”

“Yeah, maybe. Maybe I did those things. One more kiss, then I’m getting you dressed and putting clips all over you.”

“Clips?” 

Eliot grinned, putting his hand firm against the nape of Quentin’s neck. Quentin inhaled sharply, as ever surprised that Eliot moved him exactly where he wanted Quentin to be, crushing their mouths together, a strangled sound at the back of Eliot’s throat like kissing Quentin was _just so good_. Quentin’s eyes fluttered closed, and he toyed with Eliot’s curls, giving himself over to being held. As much as he had considered that this might be some silly ploy on Eliot’s part—it couldn’t be _true_ that someone this beautiful, this special could want him—Eliot’s lips and hands were solid and warm. He held Quentin so tenderly, kissed him with something that seemed suspiciously like adoration. _How_ —he wanted to say— _how could you know me, keep knowing me, and still want me—like this?_

Eliot left Quentin panting, chest rising and falling rapidly, nipples pebbled in the chilled air of the living room. _Jesus_. They were still in the living room. The _living room_ , where he _lived_. His eyes darted around rapidly, like Julia might walk in at any moment. She was—she was with Kady. Okay.

“Relax, Q.” Eliot touched the tip of his nose to Quentin’s, unexpected and intimate. “We’re fine, darling.”

 _Darling_. Eliot had called him that the day they met. “Okay.” He pursed his lips and held out his arms for Eliot to dress him in the slightly too large white shirt, quick fingers buttoning him up and taking the sides in with clips, tucking the sleeves up ever so slightly, marked again with little pink and green clips that seemed to appear out of nowhere. 

Eliot held a clip between his teeth as he picked up the vest and arranged it precisely on Quentin’s body. “Hm, this doesn’t need to be taken in that much. But we’re looking for this line right here—” Eliot gripped Quentin by the waist, just above the dip of his hip, sending shivers down Quentin’s neck, his spine, the exposed backs of his legs. Eliot caught the extra fabric in his fingers, clipping it back and stepping back to assess his work. “—and that’s perfect. God. I’m not letting you out of my sight for a second. I don’t want anyone else to get their hands on you.” He kissed the shell of Quentin’s ear. “Only me.” 

Quentin cleared his throat—which probably sounded incredibly awkward. This whole _thing_ was fucking awkward. Not for Eliot. Eliot was all suave confidence, clearly an expert—both at like, tailoring and— _seduction_. “I don’t think you’ll be beating anyone off when it comes to—” Quentin gestured to himself. “—me.”

“Don’t tell me who I get to beat off.”

Quentin groaned. “Oh my _God_ , Eliot.”

“I’m serious. I’ll have to keep my eye on you so someone else doesn’t sweep you away.” Eliot—distractingly—got to his knees and rolled up the hem on the trousers, clipping the fabric so that it sat just at the base of Quentin’s ankles. 

Quentin hadn’t really gotten the opportunity to look _down_ at Eliot. His hair was coifed, dark, wide curls at the back of his neck. When he looked up at Quentin, the sunlight illuminated the angles of his face, the green in his eyes, his long lashes. Fucking stunningly—overwhelmingly—goddamn beautiful. He swallowed against the rock-like lump forming in his throat. “God, _Eliot_. You’re so—so—fucking sexy.” 

Quentin cleared his throat, but the hard, greasy thing sitting there didn’t budge. That’s not what he’d really _intended_ to say. Eliot’s face lit up, though, with his broad, bright smile. He ran a hand up Quentin’s leg, squeezing softly, his thumb brushing over his inner thigh, adding to the glowing inner ache that built in Quentin’s core whenever he was around Eliot, starting with the first time he’d seen him at the coffee shop. It had been a bright little spark the first time Eliot had said _darling_ , and now it was something far more—a radiant flame. Treacherous, wild, and exhilarating. And going absolutely goddamn _wild_ today; a storm made of fire and light.

“And you’ve been very _good_ , Quentin.” Eliot’s voice was breathy and low. “So patient.” He swept his hand down, brushing out the fabric and going back to his work, hands working over the backs of Quentin’s knees, taking in the pants so they’d be like—stylish and straight-legged, he guessed. He could barely process the thought that Eliot wanted to look at him in the suit, keep Quentin for himself, show him off—his words simultaneously sweet and suggestive. And Quentin didn’t _know_ , hadn’t ever known, that _this_ was what he wanted. Someone to wrap him up and hide him away, cherish him. And _Christ_ , tell him he was _good_. He bunched his hands into fists, clenching and releasing. He was supposed to find something to say; he was sure of it. But nothing came.

Eliot clipped the last of the fabric. It was taut against Quentin’s legs, tighter than what he’d generally buy for himself. Still on his knees, Eliot ran his hands up Quentin’s legs, glancing up at Quentin with those _devastating_ eyes. “I’m going to take these back off and fold them up—and you’re gonna think about what you want from me.”

“What I want,” Quentin echoed, his whole body shivering. 

“What _you_ want.” Eliot nuzzled against his thigh, nose smushing against the fabric. “You were _so good_. You’re doing all of this just for me, aren’t you?”

Quentin nodded, a desperate little sound winding its way from his throat. “Yeah.”

“And I’m all about what _you_ want.” Eliot undid the fastening of his trousers, pulling them down and motioning for Quentin to step out of each pant leg. Quentin followed his movements and watched as Eliot folded the pants, and returned to Quentin’s orbit—Eliot was still _on his knees_. Eliot put one hand, tentative, on his boxer briefs, pulling the fabric taut over Quentin’s cock—which was, unsurprisingly, stiffening up. “Tell me.”

“What? What do I want?” Quentin asked, a little wildly. Was this a trick question?

“Mm hm. I wanna know what you think about—you’ve thought about me—haven’t you?”

“Um.” Only like five thousand times. God. “Yes.”

“What about?”

“You really like to talk, don’t you?”

Eliot smiled and pulled the fabric tighter, watching Quentin’s dick get hard. “I got in loads of trouble at school. Always ‘chatting with my neighbors.’”

Quentin huffed. “I’m—really—not terribly surprised.”

“So—you must have thought about something in particular. If you thought about me while you were—”

Quentin bit the inside of his cheek. His leg was shaking. “I’m really not—it’s hard to say—out loud.”

“No one else is here.” Eliot placed a kiss right at the crease of his thigh. 

“Jesus. I thought—a lot about—um—going down on you.”

Eliot chuckled. “I’m not at all surprised. Your mouth was made to have a cock in it.”

“Oh my _God_ , El.”

“What else?” Eliot licked his lips. “I want to touch you.”

Quentin nodded, making a choked little noise when Eliot cupped his cock. “ _Fuck_ , Eliot—your hands are _so_ big.” He tilted his head back and screwed his eyes shut. The string of garbage that came out of his mouth when he was around Eliot was truly fucking astonishing. 

But Eliot chuckled like it was cute. Or charming. Or something that Quentin definitely _wasn’t_. “What else?” He prompted— _again_. “Come on.” 

“Um, Jesus. Eliot. Is this what you’re going to do every time?” Quentin’s hands twitched. He didn’t know what to do with them. The storm that had been gathering inside swirled, gathering clouds and dust, a funnel of fiery need and lust, a steady, growing beat of shame pulsing at its core.

“Hey—” Eliot moved his hand so it rested on Quentin’s thigh. “—this seems like it’s not working for you right now.” 

“I—um—no—it is totally _hot_.” Quentin bit the inside of his cheek. He needed to—needed to be _hot_ —or whatever Eliot thought of as _hot_. Or Eliot—sophisticated, glamorous Eliot—he’d get _bored_ of Quentin. He’d leave. He’d go back to the life he’d had pre-Quentin, immeasurably better than dealing with this quivering, awful mess of a disaster human.

Eliot stood up and took Quentin by the shoulders. “Hey, do you—do you want me to go?”

“I don’t know—do you want to go?” His voice caught—hoarse. Heat prickled behind his eyes, and he blinked hard, trying to hold back, trying to keep _being good_. The sick, twisted pulse of the storm took residence in his chest, collapsing into pain. _Fuck_. He really was going to leave. Quentin would scare anyone; he’d made Alice leave, hadn’t he? “Maybe you should? I don’t know—I’m not—” He took a shaky breath.

“No. I don’t want to go. I want to be with you, Q.”

“It’s just—I don’t know what to say—what’s the right thing to say?” His breath was coming faster now, his skin clammy. 

Eliot looked stricken—maybe that was the word. He blinked, opening his mouth to speak, then closing it again. Before continuing, he put his hand to the back of Quentin’s head and pulled out his hair tie, letting his hair fall over his shoulders. The gesture was so tender that Quentin nearly sobbed. “Hey, Q,” Eliot started, “I’d like to lie down with you. If you want me to. I think that’s what we need to do right now.”

Quentin nodded dumbly, all traces of sexiness gone. Left the building. Departed, along with his dignity. Eliot walked him to his bedroom and took off his vest and shirt, folding them delicately and draping them over Quentin’s dresser. 

“I’m going to get you something to drink, and we’re going to lie down. Okay?” 

“Don’t—”

Eliot raised a hand like he didn’t want to hear any of Quentin’s protests. Quentin put his head in his hands. When he looked up, there was Eliot, still fully fucking clothed, a Vitamin Water in his hand. “You only had whatever this is— _white_ flavored Vitamin Water.”

Fucking Julia and her fucking Vitamin Water. “Why can’t Julia get Gatorade like a normal person?” Quentin sounded—a bit more fucking desperate than he intended. 

Eliot snorted and handed Quentin the drink before kicking his shoes off. “I’m gonna take my vest off—”

“Take whatever you want to take—off. I like it—” Quentin opened the Vitamin Water and spilled a little on his leg. He wondered absently what the fuck kind of dye they put in this stuff to make it look like it did—like ectoplasm. And furthermore, why a company that thrived on green-washing used so much food coloring.

“Where’d you go, Q?” Eliot’s voice was unfailingly gentle, patient. Gone was the snark Quentin had seen when they’d first met, washed away like a receding tide, leaving just the bare beach behind.

“Oh. Nowhere.” He reached out helplessly and took Eliot’s hand. “I meant you can take off—whatever. I like it all off.” Fuck. He took a swig of the Vitamin Water—supposedly lemon-flavored—and fell back on the bed into the relentless quaking of his body, his broken mind. 

Eliot—like Quentin hadn’t just made a fool of himself for the past fifteen minutes—methodically undressed like he had the other night, stripping down to his boxers. Everything was neatly folded, just like before. He climbed into the bed next to Quentin, moving so that they were facing one another, their noses almost touching. “I’m sorry,” Eliot said. 

“What for?” Quentin tasted the acidic lemony flavor of the white Vitamin Water at the back of his throat. His vision was narrow at the edges. When Eliot threaded his fingers through his hair, fingers against Quentin’s scalp, his heart started to slow. 

“I didn’t realize, Q. I fucked up. That is—very clear to me right now.”

“No—I mean— _please_. Don’t be sorry. I’m just—I get anxious about really weird things. You’re so—gorgeous it like—freaks me out. And it was just—it felt really intense—I’m the one who should be sorry.” He chewed at a piece of skin on his lip. More garbage words; he was a garbage human. “And I—panic. My brain just _breaks_ —”

“You get stressed out trying clothes on. And I launched you into all that. I know the idea of prom isn’t exactly your favorite, either.”

Quentin nodded. “That’s all so dumb, though—”

“It’s not dumb. I have tailored— _hundreds_ of costumes, and I work in retail every summer. You wouldn’t believe the number of people who fucking hate putting clothes on. Even clothes they’ve worn five nights in a row for a production of _Cleopatra_. Kady just picks things up at thrift stores without trying them and has me fix them later.”

“That’s my preferred method. Without the fixing. Just pray that I don’t look like too much of an ass.”

“And you—I brought you back and put the clothes right back on you and started talking to your dick.”

Quentin laughed. “Yeah. I guess.” He sighed and put a tentative hand on Eliot’s long, bare arm. His heartbeat had slowed; slowly, his mind started to surface. Eliot’s hair there was so soft. “I’m not… experienced. I mean. Not—like you? And I’m—I don’t talk about this stuff. I—the other night was different. I’m not like—not like you. Not confident. I don’t know why you’d want me—why you say all those things about me—none of it sounds… real.”

“Hey. Trust me—I lay it on thick because—” He tucked Quentin’s hair behind his ear and kissed his forehead. “That’s my way of dealing with all this. You. Liking you. I haven’t—dated anyone in a long time.”

“Are we dating?” Quentin’s voice squeaked somewhere in the middle of the words.

“If you like,” Eliot said carefully. “I’d like that.”

“Yeah. It goes against—like, everything I’ve thought for the past eight months now. I—I was really hurt. And broken. And I wasn’t—good enough.” He pressed his nose to Eliot’s neck. His cologne; that might have been what smelled so good. Underneath it was the scent of clean sweat. The scent of Eliot. He liked Eliot—in a way he hadn’t _liked_ Alice. He loved her—absolutely. He could have liked her, too, if they’d been wise enough to be friends. But Eliot—he liked Eliot. And he wanted him. And he had absolutely no earthly clue why Eliot seemed to feel the same.

“And, Q—I’m not really. That confident. It’s a cultivated air sort of thing.” He pulled up Quentin’s chin and kissed him, light on his lips. “Experience isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Experienced or not experienced—those are just more labels you don’t get to pick for yourself. Things that make you feel shitty one way or another. I don’t think—that what happened today had anything to do with experience. You were overwhelmed. I pushed too hard.”

“Yeah but that’s—”

“Don’t say it’s stupid.” He wrapped Quentin into his arms and kissed his earlobe. Eliot pressed the palm of his broad hand against Quentin’s back, peppering his cheek with kisses. He started talking, low and soft, about the months after he first got to New York, how he’d dated an older guy who’d frequently made him feel small and useless—something Quentin couldn’t even imagine—how Eliot had struggled to fit in wherever he was—he wasn’t a person who’d ever been able to hide—how he’d been made fun for being long and gangly even after he started college. Quentin let the susurrations of Eliot’s low voice wash over him, let himself rock back and forth, on the slow, calming motion of his words. 

“I’m so happy when I’m with you, Q. I need to notice when you’re not.” That was too much, too. But maybe in a good way. Quentin let the tears form and pressed himself to Eliot, holding tight and sure and close. He watched from a distance as the storm started to recede.

When Eliot kissed him again, it felt different than it had before—slow and sensual, imbued with a measured kind of hunger, but hunger all the same. Eliot’s teeth scraped over his bottom lip, but light and soft, maddeningly slow. The sounds from Eliot were low and strung out as he touched Quentin—tracing lines of his collarbones, the shallow gullies between his ribs and the lines of his muscles, lips pressed to the hollow of his neck, his tongue flicking out over super-heated skin. When he worked Quentin up this time, it was a drizzle, soft autumn rain against pavement, none of the tempestuous, brutal precision of the first time Eliot had stayed, nor the untempered excitement of earlier today. By the time he worked off Quentin’s updated boxer briefs, he felt like a pool of liquid, spread out across the fabric of his fresh flannel sheets, his skin pulsing pleasantly—no longer sharp and anxious, his fear-tinged arousal replaced with a delicate, steady thrumming, washing over his skin, covering him like gossamer. Eliot didn’t ask him anything this time, didn’t try to draw out his memories or hidden wants. He just gave Quentin the things he guessed were needed, with a murmured, “Is this okay?” and “Is this what you want?”

Quentin closed his eyes when Eliot spread his legs apart, the heat of Eliot’s breath against the crease of his thigh, his soft, hot mouth ghosting over Quentin’s cock and lower, where Eliot set to work with his tongue, one of Quentin’s legs thrown over his shoulder. A strained, animal noise came from somewhere deep in his chest when Eliot spread his cheeks apart with his thumbs and pressed his lips to Quentin’s hole, kissing him there with reverence.

“This is just what you needed,” Eliot said, his breath hot against this dark, hidden place, “isn’t it, baby?”

Quentin arched his back and cried out as Eliot pressed his thumb just _there_ , circling a spit-slicked fingertip over the puckered coil of muscle, the hint of intrusion making his body twitch and release in a shivery spasm of bliss. “ _Fuck_ \--I-- _oh_ , El--”

“Can’t even talk, can you?”

“Mmmnnnh.” Quentin tried to grasp onto a word, to snark back at him, but he abandoned all hope as Eliot started to lick him in earnest--gentle at first, then deeper, more insistent, like he was trying to unspool the tangled threads at the core of him by pulling the pleasure through him, a great calming force of bliss.

Quentin’s hands, so unsure before, twisted in the sheets, his head thrown back against the pillow. When Quentin’s orgasm hit, it was like a rolled through him, slow but relentless, cresting and rising, gentle, pouring out from the bright-hot center of him as he stroked his cock, Eliot’s tongue buried inside of him. It was like Eliot had reached into him, finding the twisted, buried things that caused Quentin to freeze before, drawing them out with his hands and mouth, giving him respite from the shattered maze inside his head. 

Eliot cleaned him with a warm washcloth like he had before, so easy and kind that Quentin felt something inside of him nearly break with the weight of it. He gripped Eliot’s hand and drew him close. He pressed lazy kisses to Quentin’s neck, guided his hands again over Quentin’s body, drawing little sighs out of him as his body gave way to the profound release, settling into a kind of sparking contentment—awake and alive beneath Eliot’s touch yet melting beneath his hands. Eliot murmured against Quentin’s ear, telling him how gorgeous he was, that his mouth made Eliot insane, that he’d wanted him like this, laid out beneath him, since the moment he saw him in the coffee shop. When Quentin was gasping beneath him, aching and begging for Eliot again, clutching at his sides, Eliot kissed him senseless and fucked along the crease of Quentin’s thigh, shuddering and crying out, Quentin’s name on his lips, as he came, warmth spilling between them. He brought Quentin to another release with his hands, with soft, feathered touches, everything slick and messy and _real_.

“ _God,_ you’re beautiful,” Eliot said, tucking their sweaty, slick bodies together. Quentin hid against Eliot’s arm. It wasn’t the most profound or even the most romantic thing anyone had said. But he believed it, at least a little. That belief, that small piece of trust, made the good parts of that sparking glow inside steadier, more comforting, a little less terrifying. Normally, when sex got fucked up—and it had, a _lot_ for Quentin—someone just got angry and went home. Or there was crying. A few panic attacks, here and there, Quentin left alone. But Eliot had stayed, had turned it back into something good.

“Wanna get falafel?” Quentin asked, after a while. “After a shower.”

“Yeah. My treat,” Eliot said.

Quentin raised an eyebrow. “You said you’re broke. I don’t need, like—chivalry. Or white knights buying me pita and hummus.”

“Seriously. My last paycheck came in from the bar. I’ll get this one.”

“Okay but—you bought the sushi, too.”

Eliot shrugged. “No big deal,” he said.

Quentin let the thought slip away from his mind. It wasn’t worth worrying over when he had a charming boy in his bed, dying to pay for his dinner. He could figure out the rest of it later, and for now, he could let himself have this one nice thing. And in ten days, they’d go to prom. It was a silly thing, something Quentin wouldn’t have chosen, but if Eliot was there, he might be able to enjoy it. Just a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quentin has a panic attack in this chapter, but it's fairly mild, and he's fine after.
> 
> Special thanks to RedBlazer for helping edit this chapter specifically. She's really The Best.


	17. Nay, then you lie: it is the blessed sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hold up! Q and El go to prom. I'm sure it's all going to go absolutely FINE. Included herein: pictures under the flower arch, Taylor Swift, unsolicited Eliot singing, Quentin not being able to dance, TODD, naughty prom blow jobs, a realization, and a revelation.
> 
> On that note, see the end for warnings.

~Eliot~

“Holy shit, dude. That is the single gayest thing I’ve ever seen.” Kady knocked back a shot of his nicest bourbon because she was Kady, and this was his life. She left red lipstick on the rim of his crystal tumbler. 

“You’re the gayest thing I’ve ever seen,” Eliot said. 

Kady shrugged like he was full of shit, even though she was wearing a cropped tux jacket, a satin bow tie, and a pair of Docs that Eliot had restored from the brink of destruction—thanks a lot, Kady. “It’s a purple velvet tux, my dude.”

“It’s _deep plum_. The bowtie is handmade from the same fabric as Petruchio’s cloak—”

Kady raised an eyebrow. “That really isn’t helping your case, Eliot. That’s gay as fuck.”

“It’s fabulous as fuck.”

Kady shuffled through her pockets and the little black purse that Eliot was sure Fen had forced on her. “Margo—” Kady shouted, banging on the railing that led upstairs. “Have you seen my fucking phone?”

“Did you leave it at the theater?” Fen called. 

“Where’s the last place you remember seeing it?” Eliot asked, tentative, like Kady was a tiger who might at any moment need to be tranquilized. Honestly, it was best to approach her that way most of the time. 

Kady gave Eliot a look that could melt ice. The smoky eye Margo had accomplished was a work of beauty, and her effortlessly messy curls defied the laws of physics—and Eliot would know. “The theater. Jesus.”

“Do you have the phone hooked up to that app—”

“Margo has my number saved in ‘Find My Friends’.” She sighed impatiently and tucked one of her curls behind her ear. 

Eliot raised his eyebrows. “Codependent much?”

“Don’t come at me with that shit. You’d never be able to leave the house without Margo approving your outfits.”

“Brutal, but definitely fair. But she can track you all across the city. I’m just saying. Little weird.”

“You think she _doesn’t_ have your number saved, too? She tricked _Quentin_ into accepting her request the other day.”

Eliot considered, thoughtful. “She-demon. Surprised you haven’t incinerated her phone. If you don’t, I might.” 

Kady regarded him for a moment. She poured a dash more bourbon and tapped on the glass. Her nails were a glossy burgundy. She sighed and gave him that look like she was about to be vulnerable. “I didn’t have anyone who really wanted to look out for me. Nice that someone does.”

Eliot blinked. “Ah—yeah. That part is nice, isn’t it?” Kady knew—not everything about Eliot. Not like Margo. Or now—Quentin, too, he guessed. But Kady knew enough about Eliot’s past to be dangerous. “You clean up nice.”

“Not so bad yourself. Which is good—since I paid for the _gayest tuxedo_ in New York.” 

“Honestly, Kady. If you think this is the gayest tuxedo in the city, you haven’t gotten out enough. And—who cropped your _gay tuxedo_? Ask yourself that. You’d be wearing a garbage bag—or one of Fen’s cocktail dresses—”

“God forbid.” Kady poured another bit of bourbon in a clean glass and handed it to Eliot. “Equitable exchange of services, Waugh. You got Quentin to go to prom—with your magic dick—”

“My magic dick has definitely been helpful.” He sipped at the bourbon because he wasn’t a philistine. It burned but—nicely. He pulled down the sleeves of his jacket, brushing over the plush material, and checked the boutonnieres, sitting on the bar behind him. They matched—silk aster blooms and sprigs of lavender, something they could save. When he’d made them, he found himself _wanting_ something to save. 

It would be funny, he thought, when he told Quentin the original game plan, the one where Kady paid him to ask Quentin on a date so he could get laid. How Eliot had progressively worn Quentin down to the point where he did say yes to a date. Now—that sounded nefarious in concept, but it wasn’t in _practice_. He wasn’t keen on admitting it, but it had really worked out in Eliot’s favor. So he was going to tell Quentin. He was—well, he was getting around to it. _Q, you know like—in 10 ‘Things I Hate about You’ when Heath Ledger keeps pursuing Julia Styles, I think the really important thing is where they fall for each other, don’t you?_ He was going to have to work on his delivery. But the movie seemed like a good vehicle for his explanation. Q liked Heath Ledger (who didn’t—bless his beautiful soul), and he’d brought up the movie at least three times when Quentin was discussing the relative merits of Shakespeare’s romantic comedies.

“My Venmo account has been twice as helpful. Just—when you’re a famous actor or whatever, get me back when you can. Cool?”

Eliot sighed, defeated. That was true. The knowledge that he’d, in essence, been paid to date Quentin sat inside of him, oily and slick, expanding beyond the edges of his rational thought. He had really done nothing wrong. He _liked_ Quentin. So that made the whole immorality of the premise irrelevant, didn’t it?

“Yes, my love,” he said. “You’ve been extraordinarily helpful.” She rolled her eyes, rather aggressively, he thought. He’d have to sew Kady another tux for all that she’d done, buy her a home in the Hamptons when he made his big break. He thought, perhaps, that another reason why their plan hadn’t been a _really terrible, immoral idea_ is that they’d both _wanted_ to help each other out. There was something about the road to hell and good intentions, but Eliot wasn’t going to focus on that tonight.

“I even paid for you and your guy to have something to wear. Even though you own like fifty suits—”

“I didn’t own _this_ , however. And I fixed up everyone’s wardrobe. I absolutely contributed. Out of my own desire to control how everyone looks. We can’t be seen out in public looking like a group of Dickensian urchins.”

“See—I don’t buy that. I think you’re excited. I think you’re _looking forward to prom_.”

“I am _not_.”

“You are—you’re excited to go with Quentin. Because you _like_ him. Fringe benefit to my whole plan is that you’ve stopped moping over that douche canoe and started pining over this dork.”

“I‘ll admit I’m pleased that Q let me pick out his suit. And tailor it.” And Eliot was pleased Quentin had recovered from the suit-fitting (and the copious post-anxiety sex). “And he’s not a dork.”

“‘Pleased.’ Yeah, okay.” She laughed. “He’s a _total dork_. I didn’t say he wasn’t likable.”

Eliot sighed. “I, too, have an emotional insight for you, dear Kady.”

Kady raised her eyebrows expectantly. “Okay?”

“You’ve been helping me not _only_ to get with Julia—but because we’re friends.”

Kady blew a curl out of her face. “It’s been a fair exchange. Like you said.” She paused, tapping her nails against the glass again. “And Julia—honestly—wouldn’t have come to prom without her emotional support Quentin. Look, you get your shit together and get another job—but you can stay here and graduate, no matter what. I have enough that—I’m not kicking you out. Okay? Don’t go work at a fucking goat farm, Eliot.”

“You overheard my goat farm plans?” He smirked, trying to hide that he was a little too tender over Kady, who very _rarely_ acknowledged that Eliot was part of her circle. 

“You were practically shouting about goats every day at the beginning of the semester—”

The clomping on the stairs behind them sounded less like small women and more like elephants, but that was likely due to all the heels. 

“It looks like your phone is headed to Lerner Hall, baby,” Margo drawled. “My money’s on Todd picking it up for you. Want me to text him?”

She shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. It’s actually like—moving? You can see it?”

“Yeah, shit’s moving. It was definitely at the theater. It’s headed to the other side of campus. ” He heard Margo’s nails clicking against the glass screen. “Todd’s been alerted he needs to give up your phone and not do weird creeper stuff with it.” 

When Eliot turned, it was like—staring into the sun. Margo was radiant in a dark pink raw silk and lace crop top, a gold tulle skirt with a high slit sweeping over her legs. “You look a vision, Bambi.”

“Abso-fuckin-lutely I do. And you’re an entire five-course meal. Coldwater’s gonna go non-verbal.”

“Isn’t he mostly non-verbal? Like that’s his thing?” Kady asked. “Either non-verbal or it’s like you’ve pushed a button and he won’t shut up.”

“Don’t insult my boyfriend,” Eliot said. He clamped his mouth shut as soon as he said it, biting the inside of his cheek. Jesus, where did _that_ come from?

Margo wound her way over to Eliot and put her arm through his. “Tell me more about this _boyfriend_ of yours. Who’s this _boyfriend_? Is it Coffee Shop Boy?”

“Slip of the tongue, Bambi.” He looked at the ceiling, a hint of a smile on his face. Quentin was his boyfriend. _Quentin_ was his _boyfriend_. Was Quentin his boyfriend? Did he have a boyfriend?

“I know you’ve been slipping him the tongue—now he’s in for a proper post prom _deflowering_.”

“You know me too well, Bambi. Regardless of his boyfriend status, he is in for a deflowering.”

“Euugh,” Kady said.

Fen descended the stairs, resplendent—that was definitely the word—in her champagne-gold mermaid gown, the bodice adorned with beads and sequins, shimmering fabric pooling around her ankles. She was a vision. A very confused vision. “Wait—Quentin is a _virgin_?”

“No,” Eliot said.

“So he hasn’t been with a guy? You haven’t been having sex?” A small crease appeared between Fen’s immaculate eyebrows. She _was_ one of the smartest people he’d ever met— _intellectually_. And she could probably beat the shit out of any of them, as a black belt in judo and the daughter of a Minnesotan knife maker. But sometimes… the other stuff in life took her an extra beat.

“My bet is on Coldwater being a secret slut,” Margo said. “What’s the word, El?”

“Mum’s the word, my dear Bambi. I’m a gentleman—I never kiss and tell.”

“No, you just crawl into my bed on Sunday mornings to tell me every detail of your flavor-of-the-month fuck-fest. So, I call bullshit on your whole _gentleman_ schtick. I’ve heard _nothing_ about your sexcapades with Quentin. You only talk about his ‘big brown eyes.’ So you _must_ like him.”

“The evidence would suggest,” Kady said.

“He’s just a diversion—”

“In the shape of a _boyfriend_.” Margo cackled. “Oh, you _love_ him. You want to kiss him all the time. And write Mr. Eliot Coldwater-Waugh inside your Trapper Keeper. This was the master plan—you’ve told him you actually like him, right? You realize you need to _tell him_.”

Eliot rolled his eyes. “I’ve told him lots of things.”

Margo tugged at him. “You _have_ told him about Kady encouraging you to date him, right? And that you now _actually_ want him to be your—whatever. Boyfriend. You’ve said those words, right? Don’t tell me you haven’t.”

“Not those _exact_ words.” Eliot cleared his throat.

“This is going to _bite you_ on the ass, El,” Margo said. “You’ve been putting it off—you _need to_ —”

“I certainly hope someone bites me on the ass,” Eliot said. Margo groaned.

“Coldwater’s fine. And you guys can suck each other’s dicks later,” Kady said. “We need to get the fuck out of here if we want to make it to dinner.” 

“Should I tell Todd to bring your phone to the restaurant? You know he would,” Margo said. “Just to be in our general vicinity.” 

“He can just bring it to the dance.”

Eliot rolled his eyes. “Todd. Todd is going? Does Todd have a date? Some hapless innocent who doesn’t understand what she said yes to?”

“Some guy named Reese,” Kady said. “No idea.”

“Well, fuck me sideways,” Margo said. “I didn’t know he was into dudes.”

“He’s like a meerkat popping up whenever Eliot enters the room. Practically drooling over his dick.”

“Jesus,” Eliot said. “I missed that completely. I thought he wanted to _be_ me. God, I can’t believe Quentin was right.”

Margo cackled. “Even Coldwater caught it—” 

“Standard bisexual disaster. Takes one to know one,” Kady said. 

“You’re implicating yourself,” Eliot said.

“Yeah, maybe. Not the disaster part. I’m a fucking bisexual _success story_.” A bright grin split Kady’s face. “Okay—enough bullshit. The Uber is at the corner. Let’s move, assholes. I swear none of you would make it out of the house if I weren’t here to routinely kick your ass.”

~~***~~

Eliot had the oddest fluttering feeling as he held open the door to the restaurant for his weird little family. Like—light and airy, champagne bubbles rising just beneath his skin. He guessed this was something akin to contentment, though he wouldn’t necessarily admit it to his obnoxiously smug group of friends. Yeah, grad school prom was ludicrous, and no one should be attending such an event. But if he _had to_ —and he did have to, at this point—he thought it was better with people he actually liked. And he could have a boy on his arm, a boy with soft eyes and a cute little bun who said Eliot’s name like a benediction when his hands were tangled in Eliot’s curls.

The bun was in strong form tonight, and Eliot suspected that Julia was responsible for the slicked back, extremely neat look that Quentin had going. It looked like she’d actually wrapped a bit of ribbon around Quentin’s ratty hair tie. Quentin didn’t notice Eliot at first—he was standing at the bar of the bougie farm-to-table restaurant with Julia, talking in his animated way, gesturing broadly, fingers twitching. He must have been raving about a fantasy novel or a sci-fi TV show because he had _that smile_ , bright and surprisingly open, the smile he reserved for his very favorite things. When he smiled like that, Eliot’s whole world stilled, the madness receding for a hair’s breadth of time. 

“Your boy looks like a sweet lil snack,” Margo said, slipping her arm into Eliot’s. “Dressed in an Eliot Waugh original.”

“Doesn’t look half bad.”

“Not half bad, huh? Sounds like bullshit, but okay.”

Quentin was wearing his _bespoke_ suit and the tie that Eliot had picked—light blue with a navy floral pattern with hints of silver woven through the flowers. He’d even deigned to wear the dark blue vest he said was ‘painfully over-the-top.’ The pants had been hemmed and tucked to accentuate his _extremely_ nice legs that Eliot had _lots of plans_ for, and his nice, round little ass that, well, Eliot also had plans for. He sort of felt like he needed a cigarette already and he hadn’t even wrapped his hands around Quentin’s waist or fondled his vest. “I’m just doing Kady a favor.”

She whacked him on the arm. “Come the fuck on. You’re not fooling anyone. You called him your boyfriend. Not entirely by accident, either.”

“Fine. He’s... highly attractive in a way that I don’t find exhausting. I honestly think I ought to take him home and ravish him instead of going to this godforsaken dance—”

“Oh, Eliot, you’re so cute,” Fen said, patting him fondly on the chest, flicking away an imaginary piece of lint. “No one believes your bull-crap. You’re thrilled to be here. And have all these _feelings_ —it’s _adorable_.”

“Shush. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to retrieve Quentin.” 

Eliot had seen a lot of Quentin by now. Tonight, however, it seemed there was something different, something weighty and solid that sat in the space between them. He could feel Margo watching him, cataloging his movements for later dissection. He was decidedly _not_ thinking about Fen’s remark. _Feelings_. As if. “Hey—Q.” 

When Quentin turned, Eliot had that same weird-fluttery-light feeling in his chest, but dialed up to a hundred. The sensation put him in mind of taking a hallucinogen—like the very best part of doing shrooms. Eliot’s favorite point in the timeline of a good trip was coming up—his skin got all electric and buzzy as he sat right at the precipice between reality and bliss. Seeing Quentin all dressed up _for him_ made him feel like he was at that peak, anticipating the full-body endorphin rush, just before the walls started to pulse with bright paisley patterns. Not that tripping balls was a morally pure experience, but there was something innocent in those moments, in the knowledge that life was about to be pure and good, even if only for a handful of hours in the space of an otherwise gray world. 

That was what Eliot felt when he looked at Quentin—and not just when he was looking fine as fuck in the suit Eliot had built for him, in the tie that Eliot had picked. The suit was just a bonus. It was more that Eliot knew Quentin had done this for him. Beyond that, he thought, it was _just Quentin_ himself. The creases by his eyes, his dimples like parentheses at the corners of his mouth, the drape of his smooth hair, his narrow hips and broad shoulders, gold-hued skin, the lean muscles of his compact body. 

_Something’s changed,_ Eliot thought. But he couldn’t figure what that change was or when exactly it had happened. He just knew that something was different—different about Quentin or different about him, or different in the way he felt when they were together. 

“El—hi.” Quentin had closed the distance between them through the bustle of the restaurant, and now Quentin was smiling at _him_ , his face all crinkled up at the corners. His eyes had almost disappeared beneath his dark brows. He knew Quentin kind of hated the way his face did that, how deep-set his eyes were. But Eliot loved it without reservation. “God—you look—” Quentin _blushed_. “—incredible.”

“I know,” Eliot said. His pulse quickened. He knew—that probably wasn’t the right thing to say. But he couldn’t get out the words he wanted; didn’t know that such words actually existed.

Quentin rolled his eyes and stood on his toes to pluck at Eliot’s tie. Eliot pulled him into a kiss. Because this was New York, and he could, and he wouldn’t have to fear for his own life or run away from home just because he liked a boy. And he liked this boy, right here. Quentin squeaked and put his hand gingerly on Eliot’s shoulder. The kiss was not _as chaste_ as it should be, really, here in the waiting area of a pretentious restaurant with all of their friends more or less behaving themselves. Eliot couldn’t be bothered to give a fuck.

“Get a room,” Margo said, jostling Eliot on the shoulder. “Or don’t. Our table is ready.”

Eliot sighed dramatically and pressed his lips to Quentin’s forehead, a consolation prize. He bent down and whispered in Quentin’s ear as the waitress led them to a little spot by the window. “You look fucking hot, baby.”

“Yeah—I mean no, I—just wore what you told me to.” 

“I’ll show you just how hot when I get you alone later.” 

“Yeah?” The tips of Quentin’s ears were bright red. “I’ll be glad, huh?”

He leaned down close to Quentin’s ear when he pulled out the chair for Quentin to sit down. A frisson of excitement swept through him; he’d always wanted to pull a chair out for a boy, tuck him away in his arms, partake in a slow dance. Prom, though he wouldn’t admit it to Margo, might fulfill some of those fantasies. And Quentin—Quentin had dressed up just for him. “Oh, you’ll definitely be glad. I have plans.” 

When Quentin looked back at him, his eyes had taken on that wanting, needy look that Eliot liked almost as much as his smile. “Oh? Plans? I’m—I like your plans.”

“God, the two of you are going to ruin my dinner. Gross,” Kady said, but there was no ire behind her words. That wasn’t bad, either—knowing that he really did have _people_. Julia, resplendent in her forest green evening gown, smiled at him a little mischievously, like she knew his secret. 

The secret wasn’t quite what she thought it was, though, was it? The truth of it—the real truth, not Eliot’s equivocating justifications—sat inside Eliot like a hex or a curse, eating away at Eliot’s luminous good fortune. He’d have to—he _had to_ come clean tonight. Later. After he’d stolen one slow dance, at least. 

At dinner, he could just keep riding the high of being with Quentin—sitting next to him, leaning in to kiss his ear and whisper to him about how good he looked in Eliot’s tie, ordering his food since he _asked_ Eliot to pick for him, thinking about all the very real, very naughty things he wanted to do once he got Quentin back to his place. The truth—the contract, the deal with Kady—wasn’t _that bad_ when he looked back over it _again_. Quentin would be fine with it. They could laugh about it. He wouldn’t have asked Quentin out if he didn’t _like him_ , if he hadn’t found him attractive, at the very least. If he’d done this on his own, he never would have been able to take Quentin to Plado or get him an updated suit that looked phenomenal on his ass, or get _himself_ a tux jacket that fit. He wouldn’t have even been able to pay the thirty dollar ‘donation’ to the Queer Grad Union for a ticket to prom. With Kady’s help, he was able to show Quentin a nice time, feed him bites of chorizo and gouda, be fully sickening in front of their friends.

He couldn’t have been something resembling a boyfriend without Kady’s help. He thought that was the label he’d use—he’d have to confirm it with Quentin. ‘Defining the relationship’ wasn’t one of Eliot’s strong suits. The way he saw it, they were—dating, they’d confirmed that. He didn’t think Quentin was seeing anyone else. When he pressed the thought against the corners of his resistant mind, he found that he didn’t _want_ Quentin to see anyone else. He wanted to be the only one to touch Quentin, hold him, nuzzle him awake for lazy morning sex. Furthermore— _furthermore_ —he didn’t want, _hadn’t wanted_ anyone else in a long while. If he was being honest, and he could be right now after two and a half Non Stop Flights (which contained a hearty dose of rum and the rather intriguing addition of aloe), he didn’t want to be with anyone else for the foreseeable future. He didn’t care to dig into that thought, as that area of his brain was covered with an impenetrable, Mike-shaped cell wall. But the other evidence was clear—they seemed to be in a relationship. Pending Quentin’s enthusiastic consent, of course.

That’s how Eliot preferred things happen, anyway: not a lot of thought up front; assess the proof as it arrived. Sharing the gnocchi and duck leg entrées in equal measure was another tick mark in the relationship column, so—tonight, he was going to bring it up. Confirm relationship—step one. Confess semi-shitty behavior—step two.

Eliot hadn’t thought he would want another relationship, not since the betrayal and fear after Mike, not since the days he’d spent in an alcohol-laden stupor until Margo had _actually slapped_ him and told him to get his shit together _right the fuck now_. He had no desire to go through that again. But—he’d gotten to a point where he didn’t think Quentin would do what Mike did. It wasn’t his style—he was kind and generous. Those things sat at his core, even when he was being bitchy, even when he beat himself up for fooling around with James. Quentin had been just as scared as Eliot was about all of this; Eliot was just getting paid. Honestly, they both owed Kady a thank-you card or a bottle of bourbon. It was a good thing—the contract. Eliot had _nothing_ to be worried about.

Some of Quentin’s hair had come loose from his little bun during dinner, and Eliot swept it behind his ear, kissing him on the temple. 

Quentin touched at his hair absently. He’d been deep in conversation with Margo about some young adult fantasy nerd thing, and Eliot couldn’t be fucked to pay attention to what either of them were actually saying. He was busy looking at the slope of Quentin’s nose, the dark curl of his eyelashes. “I should fix my hair.”

“Don’t you dare. You look extra adorable with some of it falling out.” Eliot moved his hand to the back of Quentin’s neck. 

Quentin smiled indulgently, like Eliot had said something factually untrue. Like it was impossible for him to think Quentin was in any way adorable. He leaned in and nosed at Quentin’s ear. “Will you dance with me?”

“Uh. There’s no dancing here.” He cut his eyes at Eliot.

“You know what I mean.”

“Are you asking me to _dance with you_ at _prom_?” Quentin grinned at him. 

Eliot wiped a few bread crumbs away from Quentin’s tie. “Yeah. I am. Nothing fancy. A slow dance or two. I just think we should make the most of it. Since we got dragged to prom.” 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were already enjoying this. But we’re not supposed to enjoy it, so I’m like, sure you’re not.” Quentin’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Like, I think we’ll be reported to the ‘too over it for prom’ committee for disaffected queers. You know. If we dance.”

Eliot slipped his hand into Quentin’s, and Quentin’s eyes grew wide in surprise for a moment. _See? We’re definitely… together. I can be good at this. This is good._

“I’m willing to take the chance,” Eliot said.

“Um. I don’t… dance. I don’t think that’ll come as a big surprise, El.”

“But Quentin _does_ dance,” Julia said, grinning. “We definitely—”

“Absolutely not, Julia.” 

“I’m just saying. I think Eliot should know that you’re a very accomplished—” Julia had started laughing too much to expand on her thought. 

Quentin groaned. “Yeah, I think—Eliot doesn’t need to know—you know what? She’s going to tell you anyway.” Quentin turned to him. “We had some choreographed dances in high school. So, there. Now you know. And that’s done. We don’t need to discuss it further—”

“Julia showed me video,” Kady said. “You definitely need to see—”

“My life,” Quentin said, “is a never-ending parade of fucking wonders—”

“There’s a lot of hip thrusting,” Kady added. “Not with any relationship to rhythm. Just sort of random.”

“I’m going to need to see this.” Eliot brushed his thumb over Quentin’s wrist, a little thrill running through him when Quentin shivered.

Quentin took a long swig of his gin and tonic. “Yeah—uh—no. _How_ do you have video, Jules? Christ.”

“James got video of _you_ dancing by yourself at that graduation party—right after we broke up for like the thousandth time,” Julia said, still laughing. 

Quentin immediately turned _bright_ red, cutting his eyes at Eliot and immediately. ducking his head down. “Oh, uh, yeah? I—yep. I remember that.” He cleared his throat. 

“Right after I went to see my sister—”

“Uhh. Oh yeah. Absolutely. We did. That.” The words coming out of Quentin’s mouth didn’t make a goddamn bit of sense.

Smooth. So, so smooth. Eliot smiled and squeezed Quentin’s hand. “James got the video? Why,” Eliot asked, going for a tone of _complete innocence_ , “would James have a video of Quentin dancing?”

A cheesy smile split Julia’s face. “Well—”

“Oh my God.” Quentin hid his face in his hands. 

“—I think James always had a crush on Quentin.” Julia shrugged. “He has a _lot_ of pictures of you from senior year. He’s just like… very professionally excellent at pretending he’s straight.”

“Oh?” Eliot bit down on a smile. “Quentin hadn’t mentioned.”

“He wouldn’t,” Julia said, unaware, apparently, that her ex-boyfriend had blown Quentin on their sofa. “He’s convinced no one finds him attractive, you know.”

“I do know that,” Eliot said. He noted that Quentin had solid evidence to the contrary regarding James and therefore wasn’t protesting at all; he was just hiding in his hands. “And I clearly disagree with his self-assessment. I’m _one hundred percent_ sure that James would see my point of view concerning all the _many_ ways our dear Q is attractive. I bet James would actually have _strong opinions_ about how hot Quentin is.”

Quentin kicked him under the table. Eliot gripped Quentin’s tie and tugged him into a long, thorough kiss, in front of everyone. He wouldn’t be the boy who ghosted Quentin, and he wouldn’t be the guy who kept Quentin as a secret. He deserved so much more than that.

~~***~~

On the way out of the restaurant, Quentin slipped his arm around Eliot’s waist. “You’re mean,” he said.

“I never said I wasn’t. Now you do owe me a dance—”

“Uhh—you _wouldn’t_ say anything to Julia?” He sounded horrified. 

“God, no. I’m not going to out poor not-so-straight James,” Eliot whispered. “But if you’re not going to do your performative hip-thrusting for me, I insist on a few slow dances.”

“Now it’s a few, huh? You’re so _demanding_.”

Quentin’s voice was so adorably grumpy that Eliot just had to sweep him into a kiss as the girls piled into an Uber half a block away. Quentin went boneless, melting against Eliot, his mouth open and soft, his tongue velvety-soft against Eliot’s. His lips spoke of all the marvelous things he could do for Eliot, all the ways they could make each other feel good.

“Come on, bitches!” Margo yelled. Eliot waved them off—he and Quentin could catch their own ride, or they could walk since they were wearing semi-functional shoes without spikes on the heels.

“Hey—we should—” Quentin mumbled against Eliot’s lips, kissing him between words. “Uh. I guess the car is gone.”

“It’s like the equivalent of five blocks. We can cut across the park.” 

“Fine,” Quentin said, a little peevish. Eliot adored him. God, he needed to figure out what the fuck he was going to say, or do. He needed to come all the way clean. He needed to tell Quentin all the things he’d been thinking, the pieces that had fallen together in the past few months. The way he felt… it was. So much. 

He took Quentin’s hand, leading him across the street in the crisp night air. It was warm for the beginning of November; the cold hadn’t quite hit yet. They’d been dating for a while now, hadn’t they? Longer than Eliot had been with anyone since Mike. That wasn’t saying much, but it was significant in Eliot’s world.

They walked for a while in easy silence, looking up at the leaves, bathed in golden streetlights. “I like these little suburban oases in New York,” Eliot said. “I don’t exactly miss where I grew up—but I—I like seeing the leaves. Getting away for a little bit.”

“You don’t talk about your home much,” Quentin said.

Eliot was quiet for a while as they made their way through the park. The shadows danced across the path before them. “I don’t think—it’s because that’s not my home. Not my real home.”

Quentin made a thoughtful noise. “You think New York is home?”

“Maybe,” Eliot said. “Somewhere that isn’t Indiana. Somewhere with… I guess, people that make it home. So it’s more like home than anywhere else has been.”

“Yeah. I—yeah. I think—New Jersey was always home because I had my dad and Julia. My mom is—you know, she’s not so much a real parent. Like she didn’t want to be one, I don’t think. So—I know what you mean. It’s about people more than it is location.”

Eliot could have followed that up with a lot of things he’d been thinking, with words he’d never brought to light with anyone, pieces of him that were hidden away, very possibly broken. He’d thought about saying—well, a lot of things to Quentin. He needed—and he wanted—to tell him about the way this had all gotten started, about Kady’s promises and the contract and his perennial brokeness. He wanted to say—that’s not really when it started. It had begun on a hot day at the end of August, just after the school year had started again, when Eliot had seen a wild-eyed, messy-haired boy yelling into his phone and promising a roommate a ‘metric fuckload of tacos.’ Kady had just given him a push toward the inevitable. Eliot was fucked from the outset, and he would have kept making a fool of himself, on repeat, after that night Quentin refused him. He would have just had less money to do it.

They were coming out on the other side of the park, and Eliot hadn’t said anything at all. He’d gotten lost in walking with Quentin, their hands intertwined, his body warm and close to Eliot’s. This was something he was told he couldn’t have—a silly dress-up date, a slow dance with someone who wanted him, who cared about him. Mike had sort of opened that possibility and slammed the door on it when he’d been unfaithful. Theoretically, Eliot knew that it was possible for this to happen again. He hadn’t anticipated the depth of it, the way he might fall harder and feel more. 

“What’s the music—like a band or—what?” Quentin asked at the street corner across from Lerner Hall. 

“Oh—um. Hm, I think Kady’s ex is doing the music.”

“He seemed like he just rolls his eyes professionally.” 

“That too,” Eliot said. “He’s an… okay deejay. He does it sort of begrudgingly, like he has better places to be. But the music should be good. He does it to make money, so he’s made sure he’s okay at it. We all have our hustle.”

“Speaking of which,” Quentin said, letting Eliot pull him across the street and semi-stumbling behind him, “I owe you—like—a few dates? And money for the suit. I know you’re trying to like _lavish_ me with whatever, like. Dinner and gifts and you know. You don’t have to. I know you lost your job—”

“I told you that?” Eliot’s voice sounded a little thin. He held the door for Quentin, and they walked together in the cavernous gray student center, following the sound of music to the ballroom at the end of the corridor.

“Julia told me,” Quentin said quietly. He took Eliot’s hands in his right outside of the ballroom. They could hear the beat of music inside; pink streamers fluttered outside of the door. “You don’t have to impress me, Eliot.”

“Hey—they’re playing Taylor Swift—you know, I put in a _request_.”

‘Afterglow’ was, in actual fact, playing. And Quentin should have been paying attention because he’d made Kady slip Penny an extra few bucks to play a Taylor Swift song every hour or so. Honestly, the lengths he was going to for this man.

“Eliot, I’m serious.” 

“I know. I have—I have another few auditions lined up. I’ve been selling a few costume designs here and there. And I like—I like doing this. I like doing things for you.” All of that was _true_. Just not the whole truth. Why couldn’t Eliot _say_ it? “But we’re dating, right?”

Quentin fixed him with a look that managed to be both—stern and worried, somehow. “We’ve definitely, like, had that discussion, El. Is that something that’s up for debate? I went out on a limb to even say yes to the first date. And if you—if you’re having second thoughts, I need to know.” 

“Oh— _no_. No.” Eliot felt a horrible churning in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t want Quentin to think that he didn’t _want_ this. He _only_ wanted this. “I was just checking.”

“Okay.” Quentin tilted his head to the side, his lips pursed. “Is that—something we need to talk about?”

 _Would you be my boyfriend?_ Holy shit, this was so stupid. Why did Eliot suddenly _feel_ like he was in high school? He was fucking twenty-six. 

“No, it’s not. I like you a lot. Like really—so much.” Jesus, he was really full of the best lines tonight. Fuck. He needed to tell Quentin how he felt, but he didn’t know exactly _how_ to do that or the words to say. And he needed to come clean. There was the possibility that would hurt Quentin, and that was the last thing he wanted—the very last thing. He couldn’t bear it. He’d—he’d done this. Made this whole sticky, unbearable thing that he kept trying to justify to himself. And it wasn’t justifiable, not anymore.

“Good, I like you a lot, too,” Quentin said. He squeezed Eliot’s hands. 

“I should tell you—” Eliot started, but Quentin had reached up to his lapels and pulled him down into a kiss. He tasted like sugar and lime, and Eliot pulled Quentin into him reflexively, responding to his warmth, the sweetness of his lips and tongue, the shape of his body. One hand went to the back of Quentin’s neck, the other at Quentin’s waist, hitching him in closer. Quentin made a bewitching little sound, half growl, half whimper. And—what was Eliot saying?

Eliot saw a rush of pink streamers at the edge of his vision, followed by a flash of flowing forest green chiffon. “Come on, lovebirds—they’re setting up to take prom pictures. You can make out later.”

“Oh,” Eliot said, a little surprised—like he was every time he kissed Quentin. It was always, confusingly, just as good as that first time. Had it been like that with Mike? He didn’t think it had. “Yeah, we should do that.”

“Oh my God—really? You’re going to make me take pictures?” Quentin rolled his eyes, but it was good natured. Julia was already dragging Quentin forward through the streamers, and Quentin had his hand clasped around Eliot’s arm. They stumbled into the ballroom where, well—it sort of looked like the nineties had thrown up.

“My dress should have been lime green,” Julia said. 

“Oh my God, no,” Eliot said. “I’m so glad you made a more respectable choice.”

“So—you want to take pictures?” Quentin lifted his eyebrows and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I think I could—do that. Maybe after a drink. If you want, I mean. I don’t want to—if you don’t.” His cheeks were flushed pink, and he nibbled at his lower lip. 

This boy was going to be the death of him. 

“Yes, Q, I do want to take pictures.” He looked over at the elaborate set up—a tower of white and pink flowers, with a background that looked like blue sky lined with white clouds. Fen and Margo were posing with their arms held stiffly around each other like awkward teens, dissolving into laughter every time the flash went off. “But maybe you need another drink first?”

“That might do the trick. I’m not—you know—great with pictures, but I’m like—I want to get pictures if we’re _required_ to be here. Might as well.” Quentin shoved his hands in his pockets, tilting his head down like he was expecting his hair to hide his face. It didn’t comply.

“Okay, baby—let me escort you to the bar.” Eliot held out his arm.

“I mean—” He paused like he was considering the depth of meaning associated with just _taking Eliot’s arm_ , like they hadn’t been holding hands in the moonlight ten minutes earlier. “Yeah. Okay. How many drinks do we get with the ticket?”

“Three. If you have all three before the pictures, we might be able to dance.”

“Yeah I—I mean, I _can_ dance. I would dance with _you_. I just require the appropriate amount of alcohol.” Quentin took his arm, glancing up at Eliot, big brown eyes sincere and adoring. Like Eliot was worthy of it. Fuck. 

They wound their way through the ballroom, which was slowly filling with the very queerest of the grad student population and their token straight ally friends. Everyone was unabashed—people all along the gender spectrum clad in glitter and tulle and the other fabrics of their people. He saw a guy from his Renaissance Drama course wearing a Billy Porter-inspired tuxedo ball gown; a person from his theater group in a metallic gold suit; a woman he recognized from one of their parties wearing a vintage cocktail dress with white gloves up to her elbows and a pillbox hat with black netting. She and her girlfriend, who was wearing jeans and high-heeled boots with a checked button-down and a yellow paisley tie (excellent choice), were dancing to ‘Indestructible.’ Eliot, despite his many protests, felt his cynical gay heart expand two sizes, much like the Grinch after he figured out that his Christmas-stealing shenanigans hadn’t successfully shit on the inherent joy of the holiday season.

Eliot, as a maudlin teen, had thought—when he went to the trouble of thinking about it—that every event in his life would be filled with straight people, all of them incensed by his very existence. New York had been different from the beginning, with the gay clubs and bars and spaces that were far more welcoming than any shithole in Whiteland, Indiana. There weren’t a lot of _wholesome_ experiences to be had, apart from the family-friendly gatherings that tended to occur during Pride. Or—perhaps, Eliot just hadn’t sought out that type of thing. It wasn’t in line with his Eliot Waugh creative image. Quentin had started to poke holes in his veneer—he was wholly genuine in a way that Eliot never had been, _couldn’t have been_. It wasn’t _safe_ to be vulnerable or real in a world that had told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was unwanted, a mistake of nature. Or so he had thought for many years. When he was with Quentin, he felt _disconcertingly_ safe; Quentin invited him to be real, like it was the most natural thing in the world. It was logical that they would end up here, in this space that had been created for safety and inclusion and love in all its forms, with their found families and with each other.

Eliot wasn’t going to _say_ any of that. But he kissed Quentin on the cheek and ordered a mojito while Quentin babbled about queerness and liminal mobility, how gay prom was smashing barriers by creating a space where people didn’t have to pretend to be anything they weren’t. “You know, it’s like— _reclaiming_ this totally formative experience that is—is like—by its very nature heteronormative. And like allowing us to enjoy that experience but not in any like, totally prescribed way. Know what I mean?”

“Yes, Q.” Eliot smirked. Quentin’s cynicism had also left the building, it seemed.

“I’m rambling. But, yeah. I mean. I didn’t go to prom because I had an awful crush on James.” He cleared his throat. “And Julia. So I stayed home. My dad watched ‘Capote’ with me. And then he made me watch ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s.’ Which is great, apart from the like, horrible racism.”

Eliot sipped at his own mediocre mojito. It had enough alcohol in it to do the trick, but the flavor balance was off. “It’s never been a big deal for you,” Eliot said. They were standing on the outskirts of the dance floor as ‘Girls Like Girls’ played. 

“Um, what?” Quentin sipped his drink while Eliot contemplated taking a bite out of him.

“You know. Liking boys.”

“Yeah. I—” Quentin tucked the rogue hair behind his ear again. There was a piece of lime pulp on his lip. “—I was raised by liberal parents in New Jersey. And—my mom is you know, married to a woman now. Not that she gave a shit about me. But I sort of just—came out to my dad when I was fifteen. And he said that he sort of figured, and he told me—” Quentin laughed. “—that we were having meatloaf for dinner.”

Something in Eliot’s chest seized whenever he heard stories like this—it was still astonishing to him that there were parents in the world who treated their kids like this. Like they were worthy of belief and respect. “That’s—you’re lucky.”

Quentin nodded and absently took Eliot’s hand, sipping his drink. “I’d really like you to meet him. If you—if you want. No pressure.”

“Oh,” Eliot said. His brain was already doing a lot of things—he was overwhelmed, maybe, like Quentin had been after their suit-shopping disaster slash almost-sex-failure. He didn’t think he’d ever been introduced to anyone’s parents. He’d even dodged Margo’s dad when he’d swept through New York to tell her what a disappointment she was.

“If you—if you don’t want to—” Quentin swallowed, an audible click in his throat. He looked at Eliot like he was about to _apologize_.

“Hey, I want to meet your dad. You’re close with him—and I—I just haven’t done this. I didn’t meet Mike’s parents. I don’t think he _wanted_ me to meet them. He didn’t think I’d mix well with Texas Republicans.” He squeezed Quentin’s hand, as if to remind himself that he was there, that he was all the genuine and real things he seemed to be.

“That’s insane.” Quentin knitted his brows, dropping Eliot’s hand and slipping his arm around his waist. “Why would anyone—I mean, I’d be proud to bring you home. You’re so beautiful and smart and funny—”

Eliot was going to have a heart attack. “Don’t oversell it—”

“He should have appreciated having you as a boyfriend.” Quentin gulped down the rest of his drink and shakily set it down. “I do. I mean if that’s a thing, I _would_ —like I know it’s just a title or whatever but.” He rocked back on his heels so far he nearly stumbled backwards.

Eliot’s caught his arm. “Um—yes. Yes, that’s a thing.” Jesus. Blood rushed in his ears. “Yes.” He finished the rest of his drink and put it down on one of the high tables scattered around the edges of the dance floor. He tugged Quentin into his arms and pressed kisses over his forehead and cheeks, fitting their mouths together, delicate and soft, a quick kiss, but one that he hoped conveyed his hope and longing and all the things he felt but couldn’t say.

Okay, Quentin had completed one of his goals. That was fine. He didn’t even need to do anything. Minimal effort—exactly how he liked to do things. _Boyfriend—check_.

“We should get pictures,” Quentin said, leaning his head against Eliot’s shoulder. 

“If you like,” Eliot said. He pressed another kiss to the soft stray curls at Quentin’s hairline. “I’ll grab a couple more drinks, okay?”

Drinks in hand, they made their way back through the crowd to the purposefully tacky photo set up by the door. Eliot supposed it would be cute enough. Julia and Kady were standing beneath the flower arch, Kady with her arms wrapped around Julia’s waist. Kady whispered something to Julia, and she laughed, smiling that bright, easy Julia smile. When they were done with their pictures, Kady punched Eliot on the shoulder—her equivalent of a hug—and Julia whispered something to Quentin that made his face go all crinkly. 

“I can see why you liked her so much,” Eliot said.

Quentin shrugged as the photographer beckoned them to the little stage set up. He had the look of a startled rabbit—stiff and wide-eyed—under the studio lighting, so Eliot moved him, his body losing some of the tension once Eliot’s hands were on his arms. “I—uh. Yeah. She’s family now. I don’t think we work any other way.” 

“I’m gonna put my arms around your waist like this,” Eliot said. He couldn’t help nuzzling at Quentin’s ears because he was just so cute and he was Eliot’s _boyfriend_. He’d had exactly two real, actual boyfriends before Quentin—Mike and a guy named Thomas his junior year in college. Thomas barely counted since Eliot only dated him to have access to his car. This was new territory because Quentin was better in every way than any boy he could remember. That thought—it kept creeping in—kept going off like fireworks inside Eliot, distracting little bursts of flame. 

“We’re going to look really stupid.” Quentin was pouting.

“Looking stupid is the entire point. Plus, we’re both extremely attractive.”

Quentin giggled through his closed mouth, trying to maintain his pout. But the photographer caught a few pictures right as Quentin’s smile broke through. Eliot held the straw of Quentin’s drink up to his lips before the next set of pictures. Quentin kept giggling, which was almost cuter than Eliot could handle. “Okay—I think I’m ready,” Quentin said, trying not to laugh.

“Get beside me like this—” He moved Quentin so that his head was against Eliot’s shoulder. “That’s good,” he whispered in Quentin’s ear. “You’re the best looking guy here. Besides me.” 

“Not like you’re conceited or anything.”

“Part of my charm. All the boys love my huge—” Eliot kissed the edge of Quentin’s ear. “—ego.” Quentin dissolved into another fit of laughter—tipsy enough to be amused by Eliot’s stupid joke. He was just so enchanting when he laughed. This was another thing the universe hadn’t yet afforded him—a picture with someone he really liked. It was a milestone so many people took for granted. As plebeian as it was, he’d get the best one framed. A nice frame they could have on a shelf—and, oh _shit_. He shoved down the ‘they’ in that thought as far as he could because he was halfway to drunk, and he wasn’t going to let ‘serious feelings’ get in the way of a good time.

“One more,” the photographer said. “Like you mean it.”

Quentin put one finger up to pause, reaching for his drink and finishing it, a lock of hair hanging over his face and obscuring one eye. Eliot smiled—he couldn’t _help_ smiling when he was with Quentin. He took Quentin’s glass and put it down, sweeping Quentin into an embrace. 

Annie Lennox was playing—well, the Eurythmics—Eliot had danced to ‘No More I Love Yous’ and ‘Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)’ and sang to ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale,’ practicing in his mother’s vanity mirror with a hint of her eyeshadow just beneath each brow. 

“ _Baby, talk to me like lovers do—walk with me like lovers do,_ ” Eliot sang. Quentin _smile_ , laughing softly, and he heard the camera clicking, capturing them as Eliot sang and Quentin watched him, a shy grin on his face. “Want to dive into your ocean—is it raining with you?”

“You’re so—you’re just so—”

He didn’t let Quentin finish his thought. Instead, Eliot drew him into a kiss for one last picture. He needed some kind of evidence that this had happened. Once it had inevitably all gone south, Eliot would know it had happened. When he pulled away, he smoothed out Quentin’s hair and swept his hands over his tie and vest to frame Quentin’s hips. 

“Better than skipping prom?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Quentin pressed his forehead against Eliot’s shoulder. Eliot hadn’t thought much about whether he liked tall guys or short guys. He did know he liked how Quentin just so against him, tucked in close.

“Okay, guys—next couple,” the photographer called. “You can access the photos on the website by Monday. You’ll get an email. Move along. Go have fun.”

“Wow, so romantic,” Quentin deadpanned. 

“C’mon. We should dance.” Eliot laughed and pulled him away from the arch.

“Mm, not drunk enough.”

“You are too.” As Eliot pulled a showily prickly Quentin to the dance floor, they bumped into another couple. 

“Oh, fuck,” Quentin said, and he immediately broke out laughing. 

“Oh, hi guys!” Todd beamed at them. “You all get your pictures done? That guy is so great.” 

“How do you know he’s great, Todd? We haven’t seen the pictures yet,” Eliot drawled. He glanced over at Quentin, who was biting his lip, clearly much more amused by Todd’s date than by Eliot’s keen observation. 

“Hi—I’m Quentin.” He cut off whatever ludicrous answer was about to come out of Todd’s mouth. “You must be Reese.”

Reese was— _taller than Eliot_ , for one. He had dark hair and green eyes and—Jesus Christ. Quentin was never going to let him live this down. Quentin chatted with Reese and Todd because he could apparently handle himself around people after five drinks or so, enough so that he could make a point to Eliot, anyway. When Todd and _his date_ had wandered toward the bar, Quentin elbowed Eliot in the side, still laughing. 'Hold Me Now' was playing. Nostalgia nudging in the bright spaces of his mind. 

“What?” Eliot asked innocently.

“It’s like he drew you—”

“I won’t hear it, and I won’t respond to it. I need another drink.” 

“—and—and took his drawing to like, a place that does 3D printing. That’s all. That’s all I was going to say. I, um—definitely wasn’t going to say that _I was right_. About Todd’s _passion_ for you, Eliot.”

“I’ll give you this one,” Eliot said indulgently. “The evidence lands in your favor, I must admit. Though—definitely a second rate copy.”

“Definitely, sweetheart.” Quentin blushed at the pet name, ducking his head a little.

“Would you care to dance after this, darling? I put in a request.” 

Quentin gave Eliot one of those broad, face-crinkling smiles that nearly hid his eyes. “ _Fine_. Though I don’t know what you could possibly request that would actually make me want to dance. Seeing as I absolutely can’t. Like I’m a travesty on two legs.”

“Can you waltz?”

“Um, definitely not.” 

“I can. You just follow my lead. I won’t go fast.” 

“We’re really doing this.”

“I promise I’ll ply you with at least two more drinks before I make you dance again.” Eliot held out, and Quentin reluctantly took it. The final bars of Usher faded out, and the soft guitar of ‘Lover’ started up. It was sappy and romantic, and it wasn’t _exactly_ Eliot’s style. But it was Quentin’s. Sad alternative rock was Q’s thing about ninety percent of the time, but the remaining ten percent was filled with _Lover_ and _1989_ (and four specific tracks from _Reputation_.)

“God, you’re so embarrassing, El.” Quentin’s smiled, shy and close-mouthed—pleased.

“Your Taylor Swift thing _is_ embarrassing, Q. But it’s also you. So I like it.” 

“God. You can’t be real.” 

“I’m real.” Quentin allowed Eliot to lead him onto the dance floor. “Just put your hand in mine and one on my shoulder. You can just sway.”

_There's a dazzling haze, a mysterious way about you, dear  
Have I known you twenty seconds or twenty years?_

“I’m not completely useless—”

“You keep saying you’re terrible. I’m just going by what I’ve been told. Or should I contact James for more information? I’m sure he has some reviews.”

“God, why did I ever tell you?” Quentin kept pace with Eliot, letting him lead. He was better than he gave himself credit for. 

“Because I’m cute,” Eliot said. “And I had your dick in my hand. Honestly, it didn’t take much.”

_Can I go where you go?  
Can we always be this close forever and ever? _

“I never told anyone else, you know. I think I just—well, maybe I just felt used. I think.”

“He was a scared boy who thought he was straight. I’ve been there. Bought the t-shirt,” Eliot said.

“I’m glad we’re not like that. Like nothing has to be some weird secret.” 

Christ. Eliot’s chest tightened, but he twirled Quentin and brought him back in, nearly knocking into Kady and Julia. He couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so he just—didn’t.

_Ladies and gentlemen, will you please stand?  
With every guitar string scar on my hand  
I take this magnetic force of a man to be my lover_

“You really requested this song?”

“Yeah, I really did,” Eliot said. “I knew you liked it.

“Matteo did a lot of… music gatekeeping. 1989 came out when I was with him—I had to hide that I was listening to Taylor Swift. He found the indie rock, like, marginally acceptable.”

_My heart's been borrowed and yours has been blue  
All's well that ends well to end up with you_

Eliot pulled Quentin in tight to his body, sweeping them across the floor. “I find all of you wholly acceptable. More than.” He brushed his lips against Quentin’s. Light wound through him, pinpricks in the shell he’d created shining through like stars.

 _Can I go where you go?  
Can we always be this close forever and ever?_

Eliot kissed him again when the final chords played. He was only human, after all. “Good dance?” 

“Yeah. I mean. Yes. It’s good when it’s with you.”

“Good. Because I’m going to make you do it again.” 

“I did okay?” Quentin still had him in a quasi-inappropriate full-body embrace. But no one in the ballroom seemed to mind, or even notice. Everyone there was busy dancing and drinking, being genuinely _happy_. 

“You were a delight, baby. At my senior prom, I had to dance the whole time with Matilda Meeks, who was… a friend. But I didn’t want to be there with _her_. I did give my first blow job in the high school parking lot. Her twin brother. I think he’s married to a woman now. Bet that’s going well for him.” Eliot had intended it to be funny, but the words fell flat.

They just stood there for a while, Quentin clinging to him—maybe just because he was Quentin, and Quentin was the human equivalent of a starfish, or maybe it was something more. Either way, it was nice. A year ago, if someone had told Eliot he’d be tenderly embracing his _boyfriend_ at a school dance while they talked about their feelings, he would have died in a fit of laughter. He also would have been drunker than this if anyone had asked him anything on a Saturday night a year ago. He’d chastised himself for a long time after Mike for _ever_ thinking that he could have something real. Mike had proven his father right; it was as simple as that.

“Did you at least get one?” Quentin murmured against his collar. 

“One what?”

“A blow job.”

“Oh—no. Matthew wasn’t super into reciprocation. He liked it well enough when he was on the receiving end. He kept saying he was straight—I had _tangible evidence_ that he wasn’t. But I swallowed it.”

Quentin gripped one of his lapels and cackled into his fabulous tuxedo jacket. “You’re a class act.”

“Oh, I know. I definitely am.”

“Hey,” Quentin said in a loud, very obvious whisper, “Wanna do something stupid?”

When Eliot looked down at his _boyfriend_ , there was a gleam of mischief in his eye. “ _Quentin_ ,” he said, affecting a scandalized air, “you should know by now that I’m always going to say yes. Especially when it involves semi-public sex acts.”

“How do you know it’s going to involve, um.” He lowered his voice, but he was too tipsy to _actually whisper_. “Semi-public sex acts?”

“Just a guess. You get all wistful when you’re talking about blow jobs.”

“Good guess,” he said, taking Eliot’s hand and leading him through the throngs of glitter-dusted revelers.

“You’re just doing this to get out of dancing.”

“Maybe. Any objections?” 

Eliot stumbled out of the ballroom behind him. Everything felt hazy and pink and full of clouds, like the background of the photography set up, or like the cover of one of Taylor Swift’s albums. “No, none at all.” 

Quentin rounded the corner toward the bathrooms and started pulling Eliot that way. “Bathroom, c’mon.”

“I have—Q, wait—a better idea. There’s—a dressing room for the theater, right over there.” Eliot pointed down a dark hallway. “My key fob still works to open it.”

“Um,” Quentin said. The soft bow of his lower lip had turned down ever so slightly, even though he still held tight to Eliot’s hand. “You—you’ve done this—before?”

“No,” Eliot said. He brushed his thumb over that plump bow, like he might make Quentin’s pout disappear. “I’ve never taken a boy back there. And if I had, I wouldn’t have liked him as much as I like you.”

One corner of Quentin’s mouth turned up; the glimmer had returned to his eyes. “Yeah?”

“I don’t—I haven’t liked _anyone_ as much as I like you.” The words just fell out of Eliot’s mouth, entirely without his permission. Shit. What the actual fuck was he saying? Oh—but Quentin _liked it_. He turned into Eliot’s body, dragging him down into a kiss and putting Eliot’s hand at the back of his neck. _God, he must like that a lot. Not that I have a single goddamn objection._

“C’mere, I think—good prom dates _deserve a reward_.” Quentin’s voice was the merest hint slurred, the sentence tumbling out in a rush.

“Q, baby,” he said, tracing a finger down the line of Quentin’s neck, “I’m just going to check in and see how drunk you are.”

“I’m—I couldn’t, like, drive a car. But I can’t, uh, do that—anyway. I never got my license.” He kissed Eliot again; his lips were sweet and cool from the mojito. Soft hair tickled Eliot’s nose. “I mean. I _could_ get on the subway. So I think that equals consent. Okay? I was planning to do this—for real—way back when I was sober. Also.” He stood back, shaking Eliot’s hands off, and started tapping one index finger and then the other to the tip of his nose. “Should I recite the alphabet? I can do it backwards. I bet you _literally anything_.”

“Okay—come back here—I believe you, c’mon.” He tugged Quentin back into his arms and pulled him down the hallway to one of the small dressing rooms. God bless the theater department for forgetting Eliot still had the fob from last year’s astonishingly bad performance of ‘A Doll’s House.’ He managed to locate the fob on his keychain while Quentin wriggled in his arms and mouthed at his neck, and they noisily tumbled in, nearly falling to the floor in the dark. Quentin, whose _appropriate amount_ of alcohol consumption had made him _bold_ , pushed Eliot into an armchair by the vanity and slammed the door behind them. 

“I’m gonna—” Quentin sank to his knees, his strong hands on Eliot’s thighs. The only light in the room seeped in through the door; Eliot could see vague, dark outlines of the furniture, Quentin a hazy figure between his legs. Eliot’s breath caught as Quentin sank forward, putting his head in Eliot’s lap and ghosting his fingers over Eliot’s stiffening cock. “Fuck, Eliot—you in this—fucking tuxedo with your stupid long legs and—” Quentin fumbled with the fastening on Eliot’s trousers and managed to get them at least part of the way open. “—you make me physically need to _suck your dick_.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Quentin—” Eliot’s entire brain had short circuited. If sweet, nervous Quentin was his kryptonite, this ravenous version was his like—Voldemort. Whatever, Eliot didn’t know. He didn’t know if he was fully conscious anymore.

“I mean, if you don’t _want me to_ —” Quentin palmed his cock, whimpering as he wrapped his fingers around what he could hold. 

“Oh—I very—very much _do_ —yes.”

“Then undo these dumb fancy pants and _give it to me_.”

“If you insist—holy _fuck_ , Q—” Eliot was desperately trying to maintain his composure, but Quentin was mouthing at his dick and trying to rip his zipper apart. “All right. Slow down.” Eliot took a shaky breath and cupped the side of Quentin’s face. “Just—do what I—do what _I tell you_.”

Quentin made a desperate little noise, still pawing at Eliot but leaning into his hand now. “Yeah, whatever you—anything you want,” he said, his voice low and rough.

Yeah, Eliot could. Eliot could do this. And possibly maintain composure. “Open up, baby. I can’t see you but I wanna—” He swallowed hard and shed his _very nice coat_ , tossing it over another chair or maybe the vanity—he really couldn’t give a fuck. He put his hand back against Quentin’s jaw, thumb resting on the jut of his chin. “—need to feel your mouth.”

He felt Quentin’s mouth open, jaw going slack against his hand. Eliot traced the outline of Quentin’s mouth, getting his fingertips wet with spit. A sweet, soft little sound, from the back of Quentin’s throat. Eliot shivered; his cock twitched hopefully.

“You want my fingers, don’t you?”

“Y-yeah,” Quentin’s said, unsteady.

“Good. You’re so—you don’t even know—” Eliot slipped two fingers inside Quentin’s mouth—gentle, so gentle—petting over his plush tongue, touching the secret heat that was only for him. Christ, he was already hard. But Eliot knew this part. He unfastened himself and took his cock in hand as Quentin licked over the seam of his fingers and closed his mouth to suck. Trembling, Eliot stroked himself, the brushing of skin on skin somehow even filthier in the dark. The head of his cock was already wet with precome; he could go off just like this, hand on his cock and fingers pushing into the wet heat of Quentin’s mouth. The thought of Quentin’s mouth on his cock would be enough. His breath hitched, and he bucked up into his fist as Quentin gripped Eliot’s wrist and lowered his mouth down to the base of his fingers. Close, so close—he had to take his time. He slowed his own hand and told Quentin in low tones how good he was, how he’d dreamed of that mouth, how desperate and crazy Quentin made him. When he took his fingers away, Quentin whined.

“Please,” he said, a little grumbly, “I want it.”

“So pushy. Okay, come here, sweetheart,” Eliot whispered, guiding Quentin’s mouth and slipping his cock between those soft lips, into velvet-soft, wet heat. The sound Eliot made was choked off—a strangled, thick groan. Holding just the head in his mouth, Quentin licked over the slit, making soft noises of satisfaction as he tasted Eliot, swirling his tongue over the head. 

_Fuck any guy_ , Eliot thought, who’s had his cock in Quentin’s mouth and didn’t know what they had. 

In the gray-black dark of the small room, Eliot reached out and grabbed Quentin’s hand, lacing their fingers together as Quentin worked over his cock with his mouth, taking Eliot as far as he could. He could almost feel Quentin’s eyes looking up in the dark, as if he could see Eliot, seeking some kind of assurance. The muscles of Eliot’s abdomen trembled, hips bucking gently upward into the dark, hot hollow of mouth and teeth and tongue. He grasped for words but found himself speechless, glowing-bright pleasure curling low in his balls, bursting, effervescent through the trembling lightning rod his body had become. He closed his eyes and tangled his free hand in Quentin’s hair, wrenching it loose from its tie and pulling hard enough to shock Quentin into a low, ragged, growling moan.

“Fuck—Q, I—” Eliot swallowed, panting through the drowning fucking feeling of longing, through the vise-like heated grip of Quentin’s mouth traveling over his cock, trying to bring up something—some thought that hid in his mind, buried behind the ugly, pain-marred walls he’d been building piece by piece since he left Indiana at seventeen. He found he could only clutch at Quentin’s hair, jerking him hard— _too_ hard—as he fucked up into the slick cavern of his mouth. He dropped his hand, shaking. “I’m—sorry—if I—too rough— _oh my God_.”

Quentin took Eliot’s hand on his and put it back to his hair, taking Eliot’s cock to the back of his throat. Eliot’s fingers gripped reflexively, tugging and moving him exactly where Eliot needed him, where Eliot wanted him. Release swept through Eliot—trust—trust that Quentin knew what he wanted, that he knew what he could handle. Pleased little grunts and slick sucking sounds filled the air around him, and he bucked up into Quentin’s mouth more insistently. 

“Sweetheart—you’re so good, feels so—oh, _fuck_ , right there—” Eliot thrust hard, pushing past the yielding soft palate to the slick-tight hold of his throat, holding Quentin’s head firm as he fucked into his mouth, the pulsing heat of his throat. Quentin sputtered but kept taking it, whimpering like it was just as good for him as it was for Eliot. 

Oh, God but this boy would like it _rough_ , would probably let Eliot do whatever he wanted. As it occurred to him that he’d have the time and space and _life_ to do everything with Quentin—if Quentin could just keep wanting him like he did right now—the tender ache low in his groin grew tighter, more insistent, building to an unyielding blaze of sensation—

“Fuck—Quentin—I’m—“

Quentin brought his hand to the base of Eliot’s cock, jerking him off, fast and efficient, as he laved over the head of Eliot’s cock. Eliot felt the heavy weight gathering in his balls, the faint swell of his cock, the edge of his pleasure tipping forward and bursting with the startling heat of a brush fire. His orgasm surged, rushing and wild, centered on the sumptuous heat enveloping Quentin’s cock, and Quentin was moaning around his cock as he came in torrid-hot waves, pulsing and filling Quentin’s mouth. Blood rushed in his ears, the world fading out for a moment. His mind was filled with peaceful, soundless blankness; in his body there was only the scintillation of bright release and relief. When he came back to himself, Eliot found one hand still petting through Quentin’s hair, his other still laced with Quentin’s. The weight of Quentin’s head rested against his thigh. In the dark, the sounds of ragged breathing hung between them.

After a while, Quentin shifted. “I—uh. I think you broke my hair band.”

Eliot chuckled, an aftershock of pleasure cresting through him. He tucked himself back in his trousers, buttoning up, body loose and relaxed. “Come up here, baby. Let me take care of you.”

“You don’t need to if you don’t—”

But Eliot was already tugging him up, putting Quentin in his lap so they were pressed tight together. “God I want—I _always want_ my hands, my mouth on you. Preferably both at the same time.”

“Yeah? I’m just—it’s always amazing that you even—”

“That I what?” Eliot cupped Quentin’s cheek, fingertips resting against his jaw. He couldn’t see anything other than the vague outline of Quentin’s face, the soft sweep of hair, but he was certain Quentin was sporting some pretty obvious sex hair. 

“I mean, I know we’ve been over this. I just—” Quentin took a deep breath. “I look at you and I see this—like, you’re like a _king_. God, that sounds so—”

Eliot bit his lip, smiling. “I am very kingly, yes.”

“I just can’t—I’m just so— _average_.”

“Oh sweetheart, you’re anything but.” He moved his hand to the back of Quentin’s neck, which must have been some kind of cheat code—Quentin immediately went boneless and let out a thrilling little whine. “First of all—” Eliot touched his lips to Quentin’s, tasting himself on his skin. “—you excel at sucking cock.”

Quentin laughed, low and wet. “Good. I like that you—I mean, I like that it’s not complicated. Like you don’t expect me to be someone I’m not.”

“I would never.” Eliot hitched Quentin forward and _oh_ —he felt the stiff line of his cock pressing against his abdomen. “Second—” He ran his knuckles over Quentin’s dick, pressing his thumb to the tip. He trembled beneath Eliot’s touch. “—you’re beautiful. And eager. And I wanna do everything with you.” Eliot’s free hand went to work unbuttoning the pants he’d altered to put Quentin’s cute little ass on display. “So, don’t call yourself average. The—” Eliot nuzzled against Quentin’s ear and slipped his throbbing-hard cock out of his boxers, relishing the soft, throaty little whine in his ear. “—king commands it.” Eliot spit into his hand and wrapped his fingers back around Quentin’s thick, pretty cock. 

“Eliot.” Quentin’s hands went around Eliot’s neck as he arched up and fucked into Eliot’s hand in short, uncontrolled bursts, filthy-slick sounds echoing in the small space. 

“Just let go, baby. Gonna make you come before we go back.” He tugged at the loose hair at Quentin’s neck. “Everyone’s gonna know—” he purred, his voice a jagged, aching thing, “—that I had you in my hands, that you _needed this_ so bad you couldn’t wait.”

“I _hate_ how much—” Quentin rocked into Eliot’s hand, gasping, his words lost. “I— _fuck_ —I hate—” Eliot nosed against his cheek; he sought out Quentin’s lips, covering them, drawing him open, drinking in his warmth and the taste of his tongue, the sharp, masculine smell of his sweat, the clack of teeth against teeth. Quentin pulled away and made a sound like he’d been punched in the gut. “I hate how much I want you,” Quentin rasped.

Eliot gripped Quentin’s hair and _pulled_. “Oh, baby—I’m a big fan.”

A low, choked noise rose from Quentin’s throat. Eliot found a home for his lips just above the collar of Quentin’s shirt, seeking out the rhythm he knew Quentin liked, timing his strokes with the catch of his breath, the rocking of his body. He pressed in close, insistent, movements speeding. Quentin’s fingers tucked into the damp curls at the base of Eliot’s neck. “I’m close—El—”

Eliot would—he’d have to be careful not to ruin their suits—he could do this, even in the dark. He held Quentin in his lap as he slid onto the floor in one fluid movement, lowering their bodies and taking the silken-salty core of him into his mouth, as if he could prove that he meant every word couldn’t yet speak with the movement of his tongue, with the weight of his hands.

He couldn’t be sure if he’d accomplished it, but later, when Quentin kissed him in the dark, he felt a smile against his lips. And that, for now, would suffice.

~~***~~

Quentin’s hair tie was luckily the only casualty of their erotic adventure. Eliot salvaged the black ribbon Julia had used, pulling his locks into a low ponytail. It wasn’t Quentin’s normal sexy man-bun, but Eliot found it _highly_ attractive given the circumstances. It was blazingly obvious what they’d been up to when he walked back into the ballroom with Quentin on his arm—or it would have been if anyone paid them a bit of attention. Quentin was pink on the apples of his cheeks, and his hair had certainly not retained the sleek style Julia had forced upon it. If anyone asked Eliot (and unfortunately, no one did), he thought Q looked at least twice as hot with post blow-job hair. 

“We should—um.” Quentin’s eyes darted up at Eliot. “Get another drink. Pretend like we were talking—over there.”

“So _now_ you’re shy? Really?”

“No. We could—get in trouble, maybe?”

“Who’s going to report us? Kady?” Eliot nodded to their gaggle of friends—Kady had Julia sitting in her lap while Fen was trying to drag Margo back to the dance floor. “Literally no one could care less. But I’ll get you a drink, my darling. We’re going to _dance_.”

“ _Fine_ , but I’m not going to enjoy it,” Quentin grumbled.

“Back to being bitchy, I see.”

“Stop it—don’t call me—”

Eliot poked him in the ribs, and Quentin giggled, a light, happy little thing. “You are much too sober again. We’ll remedy that.”

The night faded around them. Eliot called it a triumph that he got Quentin to sort of jump around to ‘Bizarre Love Triangle’ and ‘Dancing on My Own.’ Quentin was, as promised, _not_ a good dancer, even after two more drinks—but he _was_ more uninhibited and prone to rambling about nerd things and music things and waxing poetic on the subject of Eliot’s eyes and Eliot’s long legs and giggle-whispering to Eliot about his _dick_. Honestly, gay prom was _such_ a good idea. Eliot would recommend it to anyone.

Eliot didn’t even have to ask Quentin to slow dance again. When the opening bars of the Iron and Wine version of ‘Time after Time’ echoed through the ballroom, Quentin was the one who pulled Eliot onto the dance floor, resting his head against Eliot’s shoulder and swaying as the music played. 

“I’m glad I met you for real,” Quentin said. “I don’t just coffee-shop know you anymore. I _know you_ know you .”

For about the tenth time that night, Eliot’s chest constricted, a little bundle of pain and sorrow and longing and hope tangling up at the center of him. He’d built up so many versions of Eliot Waugh over the past decade, painting one on top of the other until he was like a shellacked vanity or an oil painting, perhaps, with all the older iterations fixed beneath the shiny veneer. It seemed Quentin saw through all of them, straight to the core, down to the rough details of Eliot, the sketches before a second draft had even been formed. If he tried, Eliot could pull a response from beneath the vests and eyeliner and careful curls—something true to the original self he’d carefully covered. He opted for—not that. “I’m thrilled that you’re not straight.”

That got a chuckle out of Quentin. “Me too.”

Quentin didn’t even startle when Eliot kissed him on the dance floor, stopping in the middle of all the couples and throuples and groups who were having a moment to ‘Time after Time.’ “God, I’m just—lucky,” Quentin said, pulling away. “I kept thinking that this was some kind of—trick. Like it couldn’t actually be that simple—that I wanted to be with you, and you felt the same way.” 

“Yeah,” Eliot said. He’d been meaning to dive into this before now, hadn’t he? Rip off the bandaid, tell Quentin the whole story, make it into a humorous anecdote. But Eliot didn’t—he didn’t know if he could survive it if it all went wrong. If Quentin noticed any shadows cross Eliot features, he didn’t show it. Instead, he giddily pulled Eliot away from the dance floor and kissed him again, pulling Eliot down by the collar and whimpering into his mouth. His lips were rosy and wet when he pulled away, and Eliot wanted to—well, take him to bed and never let him leave. But also— “Q, there’s something I should—”

“I mean, I’ve just been—like. A disappointment. To my girlfriend in college and to Alice. And Matteo just—he used me, you know? And James just—” Quentin chewed at his lip and wrapped an arm around Eliot’s waist, nuzzling into his side like a cat. “—I think he used me, too. I felt so guilty and so shitty—and he just _never mentioned it_. Ever. Again. And I just really—really appreciate that you haven’t treated me like I’m a—let-down or a _joke_. Or some kind of prop. You know?”

“Quentin, there is something—that I _should_ tell you.” Eliot laughed unconvincingly. “It’s actually pretty funny—”

“Not even Marina could piss me off right now. Kady’ll probably kick her ass before I even—like, get the chance to make a fool of myself. Or you could just like, pick her up again.” Quentin grabbed his collar. “That was so _hot_. I mean, you probably shouldn’t try, but I have this fantasy where you pick _me_ up and like, hold me up with magic and fuck me against a wall—”

Oh, boy. Quentin probably couldn’t tap his nose anymore. But this had to happen like, now—or maybe he should take him to a diner, and they could sober up and talk about this like adults. And Eliot could tell him that Quentin had _never_ been any kind of joke to him because Eliot was very possibly falling in love with him. 

Fuck.

 _Fuck_.

Eliot swallowed. “Q, maybe we should go somewhere...”

“Like back to your place? Your bed is bigger than mine and I wanna _do things_ on it.” 

God, Eliot _really_ wanted that. That was something he could do a lot better than—whatever this was turning into—his obligatory relationship confessional? That he had clearly glossed over for weeks and just—ignored, thinking it was no big deal, that it would sort itself out or that it didn’t _matter_. Quentin looked at him with such _trust_ and adoration—he _cared about_ Eliot and wanted him and liked him despite his pettiness and his shitty past and his penchant for steamrolling people and carrying on without looking back, without looking forward. 

But. 

“ _Quentin_ , there’s a diner. We should go there and get you some eggs and hash browns. Honestly. Just—we both should sober up a little—there are some things we should talk about.”

“No, no no no. I don’t—I don’t. Wanna do that. Okay? I’m not ready for this to—be over?” Quentin’s eyes filled with blind _panic_. “I’m not—um—”

“Q, baby.” Jesus, Quentin was going to break his fucking heart.

Quentin’s breathing was short and clipped, like he was right at the edge of going too deep and paralyzed, couldn’t swim. “No—El—”

“Look at me,” Eliot said. Quentin’s eyes darted up and met his. “That’s not what’s happening here. I want to be with you. I really haven’t—haven’t _ever_ liked anyone the way I like you. I’ve told you that. I want you to nod if you believe me. Or if you—think you could believe me.”

Quentin took a deep, shaky breath. He nodded, eyes huge, so earnest. “I—I’m sorry.”

“Don’t—don’t apologize.” Eliot sighed and shook his head. “I really need to work on my delivery.”

“What is it you want to talk about? You can tell me here. And then we can just—we can go home. If you wanna.” Quentin’s eyebrows lifted, not as enthusiastic as before, but some of the color had come back into his face. He glanced over Eliot’s shoulder and back at Eliot again. 

“I think we should—you know, we could just go back to my place. We can talk in the morning.”

Quentin smiled, still a little hesitant. “Okay. That sounds good. I think.” He looked over Eliot’s shoulder again. “But um. Marina is over—by Julia and Kady’s table, and she’s—trying to, she’s over there. We should.”

“Marina?”

“Yeah I—I saw her when we—um. ‘Time after Time.’”

“Oh.” Eliot nodded. Yeah. Okay. Eliot could provide back up. He could be a good boyfriend slash friend or whatever and take care of his people. Then they could go home. And sleep. And fuck. And wake up and—probably fuck again. And Eliot could process every one of these annoying emotions in the morning. “Yeah, we can do that. What the fuck is she doing here?”

Quentin shrugged and grabbed Eliot’s hand, tight, like he was afraid to let him go for a moment. Shit. It was going to be miserable to tell him, but Eliot _had to_ ; he had to protect this one good thing in his life, make it count. Make him stay. _Because_ , Eliot thought, _My life won’t work anymore without him in it._ The realization soaked into him, entering all the broken parts of him, the marred things that his family had tried so hard to destroy, the dusty bits that Mike had left behind, imbuing the detritus of his soul with undeniable surety. He was going to tell the truth, and Quentin would stay. He would do whatever he had to do to make it right. 

The thought got stuck on a loop, circling through his mind on rapid repeat, so distracting that when he followed the line of Quentin’s sight, he didn’t know what he was seeing. The scene didn’t register, words not matching the reality he expected—like a badly dubbed movie or an audio lag on Netflix—and even when Quentin was pulling him toward Kady, who was shouting at Marina—and Julia, who was shouting at Kady, his brain paused and refused to process what was happening. Marina, resplendent in a flared black cocktail dress and matching black gloves, was holding a sheaf of papers with metallic blue staples at the corners, pointing them at Kady, and in the other hand was Kady’s phone. 

Kady’s _phone_.

The world came rushing back to him the moment Quentin dropped his hand. 

“Well, if it isn’t Captain Downward Spiral,” Marina said, her Cheshire grin blinding in its brightness. “I have a printout for you, munchkin. I told you this fuckbucket—” She gestured to Eliot. “—was only out for himself.” 

Eliot watched, floating outside of himself, unable to move or speak or even step forward to prevent Quentin from taking the packet from Marina, with bold words displayed at the top: _Venmo Transaction History Oct 1, 2017-Nov 5, 2017; Kady Orloff-Diaz/Eliot Waugh Contract, Sept 23, 2017._

That bitch had _actual receipts_. What the _fuck_?

“Quentin,” he heard himself saying. “Q, I can explain—”

Quentin held the paper in trembling hands. And he started to read. “This contract states that Kady Orloff-Diaz will present Eliot Waugh with funds for each date with—” Quentin looked over at Eliot, a crease forming between his brows, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was reading. In the background, Mitski was playing. “—Quentin Coldwater. Bonus for each _successful date_. Prom will be paid for in entirety. Rent covered in full until January 1, 2018.” The crease in Quentin’s brow deepened, and he looked back at the paper in frank disbelief. “I don’t—I don’t understand. What—Eliot— _Eliot_ —what is this? Did—Marina, made this up, didn’t she?”

“No, sugarplum,” Marina said, her voice like shattered ice.

“Q, this is—it’s like a—” Fuck. A joke? He couldn’t say that. It wasn’t. It hadn’t been. It wasn’t fully serious—but no. He couldn’t say that. That was the single biggest thing Quentin was afraid of. “I was going to tell you. That’s what I was going to tell you. I was—I’m broke. So, I—”

Eliot watched in horror as Quentin flipped through three pages of Venmo transactions, each documented with Kady’s obsessive note taking. Why couldn’t she fucking use emojis like a _normal human_? “‘Reservations at Plado,’” Quentin read. “Fucking ‘suit fitting for Quentin.’ ‘Sushi.’ ‘Prom drink tickets.’ ‘Cash for tuxedo jacket. Allowance for lining fabric.’ ‘Allowance for sewing machine repair.’ ‘Allowance for small gifts and accessories.’ Jesus fucking _Christ_ , what the _fuck_? Eliot—can you fucking—like—explain this? It’s not what it looks like, right? Kady wasn’t _paying_ you to take me out? Like it was a fucking— _scheme_ —this whole time?” Quentin’s hand was shaking. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Marina cross her arms in satisfaction, her smile icy cold. 

“Is this the Venmo thing?” Fen said, her mouth a round little ‘O.’ She’d stumbled over seconds ago, Margo beside her. 

In the background, Eliot heard Julia’s voice, surging like a storm. “How much _fucking money_ do you have? What the _fuck_?”

“Oh. Fucking _wonderful_.” Quentin threw his hands up. “Everyone knows.”

“I can explain,” Eliot tried again. 

“Oh? Is it not what it looks like? Because it looks a lot like you’re _full of shit_ ,” Quentin spat. He threw the paper at Eliot’s chest, and it floated to the ground. The cold rage in Quentin’s voice cut to Eliot’s core. He expected to see that anger reflected in Quentin’s expression, but his face had gone blank.

Quentin’s hands had started to shake, and the color had drained from his face completely. “You—you _knew_ about—all of my—of my history, that I didn’t want _this_ —that I didn’t want to feel used or—like I was some kind of—shitty joke.” His breath started coming in short, painful-sounding gasps, and he stumbled back to catch the chair behind him. 

“Quentin, come on,” Eliot said, stepping toward him, “Let me take you home. Let me—let me take care of you. Baby, please—”

“W-what—” Quentin stammered. “Do you get a fucking— _bonus_ for getting me into bed?” He swallowed, throat bobbing. His long lashes were wet with the hint of tears. “ _Did_ you get paid? Is that what constitutes a—a _successful date_?”

Eliot’s knees had turned to water, the ground shifting beneath him. “Q, I— _please_ let me explain. It never—I never would have—if I didn’t like you already. If I didn’t want you—”

Quentin held up his hand. “Please,” he said hoarsely, “please stop.” Quentin put his hand to his chest, swallowing again—and again after that. Julia, heels in hand, swept over to Quentin, putting her arm around his shoulders and fixing Eliot with a deadly glare. “Jules—Jules—I’m—” Quentin’s breathing had become shallow and rapid, eyes blinking rapidly, his gaze blank. “We need to—I need to—it’s, um.”

“Q, what’s wrong? Come on.” Eliot started. “Let me help you, baby.”

“He’s having a fucking panic attack, asshole,” Julia spat. 

“I can—I can get some—water,” Eliot tried. All the hope inside of him had turned to a thick, graying tangle, the light within receding. He just—all he wanted—he wanted to make it _right_. Wrap Quentin up and take him away. 

He felt a cool hand on his and looked down to see Margo at his side. “Honey, you’re going to need to _not_ right now. We should go home.”

“But Quentin—”

“Yeah, yeah. But you were going to tell Quentin, I know. It’s all fucked up now, huh?”

“Q—please,” he begged. He tried to step forward, but Margo’s hand rested on his arm, steady. She couldn’t have held him back with her body, but he felt the intent. 

Marina swanned over, eyes locking on Eliot’s. “You fucked with the wrong bitch, Eliot. Enjoy your just desserts.” She blew him a kiss. “Best prom I’ve _ever_ attended.” She turned on her heels and walked away, dusting off her hands.

Eliot didn’t even respond—couldn’t locate the words. Kady had started after her, but Penny had left his bored deejay perch to hold her back, talking to her quietly, hands on her shoulders.

“El, we should get out of here, okay? Kady needs to go home. So do you,” Margo said, her voice so achingly tender that he could barely stand it. She _never_ sounded this way. Never talked to anyone like that, not even Fen.

Eliot watched in mute horror as Julia gathered Quentin— _his boyfriend_ —in her arms, bundling him away and out of the ballroom. Julia grabbed Todd on her way out, apparently instructing him to help get Quentin outside. Eliot walked after them, legs carrying him to a run. Todd and Julia hauled Quentin outside, and Julia gently guided him into an Uber for the five block ride back to their apartment. She’d—she’d get him water and his meds and food, he knew. But that was supposed to be him, holding Quentin at his worst, making sure he was okay, taking away all the things that made him hurt. Instead, Eliot had caused this. He’d watched the strangest, loveliest thing in his life go up in flames. When the car rolled away, Quentin didn’t even look back. 

Eliot slumped against the exit of Lerner Hall, closing his eyes and sinking to the ground.


	18. But that our soft conditions and our hearts/Should well agree with external parts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin is absolutely fine. 
> 
> (Spoiler alert: he's absolutely not fine. This is a rough chapter. This is peak angst. Things are okay after this.)
> 
> See notes for more information.

~Quentin~

Quentin was fine.

He was _fine_. You know, in the way that people are sometimes fine after a break up that wasn’t quite a break up—more like a collection of the most humiliating moments of his life in front of a large group of people. But you know, that’s just what happened sometimes. Sometimes, you fell head first into a relationship with the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen, and then he broke your heart in front of all of your friends. That was— _totally cool_. Like he’d told Julia like two hundred times in the past week, he was fine. He was getting his work done, and therefore, he was _fine_. 

In fact— _in fact_ —he was like, overproducing work for his classes. He’d finished his story. So what if it ended up with the main character locking himself in his cabin away from the mercilessly beautiful man who’d tempted him into thinking that they could have a life together? As for the man, he had become a rotten tree in the garden they’d built. So the main character— _haha_ , who was basically Quentin—packed his shit and moved, started a new fucking garden somewhere else, a garden full of nettles and thorny blackberry bushes and blood-dark roses, and he built a wall of thorns to keep everyone away. His professor had called it an anti-fairy tale, told Quentin it was brilliant. He got an A. He probably wouldn’t have done so well if he wasn’t like, sort of losing his mind. (But he wasn’t really losing his mind—because Quentin was _fine_.) If it hadn’t been for Eliot, Quentin would have made the story into some sappy drivel where his Vasilisa-type character like, just made out a whole lot with his forest-husband and planted an orchard with their white stags. Or some shit. 

And—and the poetry class. He needed a collection of eight poems for the culminating project, but Quentin had written ten. They were all about Eliot. Luckily for the people in the program, none of them knew that motherfucker, so he could write it off (ha!) as totally from his brain. They were all sonnets, and three of them had perfect iambic pentameter. They weren’t even due until after Thanksgiving, but he’d written them all in the span of three days, during which time he slept very little. But didn’t _want_ to sleep since his little _issue_ on Saturday night. Julia kept referring to it as a “panic attack,” but that wasn’t right. Quentin had panic attacks. Quentin had been doped up on intravenous Xanax before. That—what happened on Saturday—he was drunk. He was emotional, and he’d—he had needed his meds once he sobered up, but there was no threat of the Midtown Mental Health Clinic this time. He’d woken up the next day and started working, and he was still working. He had two more stories to write—well, one more. He was writing the second one for fun, which was like, _hilarious_ because nothing was fun right now. 

But he was fine. 

He stared blankly at the computer screen, his vision fuzzing out. He had the sensation that he should be doing something, but he was writing his story, and that was the more important thing than whatever the other thing was. He picked up his phone and looked at it. The screen was black, hairline fractures extending out from a star shaped crater in the middle of the screen. That’s right. After the fifth message from Eliot, he’d slammed the phone against his desk, and he’d thrown it at the wall for good measure. He hadn’t tried turning it back on. It might turn back on if he gave it a go—he’d have to get a new phone, eventually. He could just change his number. Then he’d never see _Eliot Waugh_ pop up on his screen, ever again.

There was a short rap at his door, a jiggle at the handle. “Q? I brought you some food and coffee. And a Smart Water. You said you ‘hated the fucking Vitamin Water’.”

That wasn’t right. It was like midnight. Why would she have coffee? “Um. Thanks, I’m fine,” he called.

“Quentin, it’s nine in the morning. You have class in an hour.” 

“It’s _what_?” 

“Open the door, or I’m going to pick the fucking lock.” 

He threw his phone at the handle, and it clicked, unlocking. The iPhone clattered to the floor. He hoped it broke even worse. “There. You can come in.”

The door opened, and he saw Julia, those huge dark eyes of hers focused on him. “You haven’t eaten,” she said. She put a plate down on the table in front of him—eggs, toast, two sausage links. “Are you going to class?”

“Yeah, yeah. Of course I’m going to class,” he said, laughing. “I made it to all my classes so far this week. I’m just—I lost track of time.” She put a cup of coffee next to the plate. He had the visceral, tugging memory of a dirty chai latte, copper-green eyes, the long line of a graceful forearm. The black coffee wasn’t what he wanted. 

“Quentin, you missed your classes yesterday. Remember? You called in sick.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said absently. “I—yeah. I emailed the—um—writing department.”

“Yeah, you told them you have fucking _mono_. We had this conversation yesterday when I tried to make you eat. You didn’t eat then, either.”

“Oh,” Quentin said. He didn’t quite remember that. There was a vague, email-shaped memory where a real one would be. It floated through his consciousness like a dream.

“Are you skipping again today?”

“I—um. I don’t know. Is it—it’s Tuesday?” He swallowed, looked back at the words on his computer screen. Some of them were readable; some of them were a jumble. His sentences had devolved into well nigh unreadable James Joyce.

“It’s Wednesday.”

Julia sat down on his bed, put a gentle hand on his arm. He would have shied away from the touch, maybe, if he’d felt it. He didn’t really feel it. “Your dad called. He’s worried. You haven’t been responding to texts. I told him you’d lost your phone. He said he’d send money to replace it.”

“Oh,” Quentin said again. “Yeah.” He scratched at his hair. He didn’t remember if he’d washed it recently. He didn’t think he had. He showered on Sunday, but maybe not since then.

“You went to class Monday?”

Quentin squinted, trying to remember. “Yeah. I just had Nonfiction lecture. I went. But not yesterday, I guess.”

“Fuck. Okay. I should have—keyed in sooner—”

“What—what do you mean? I’m fine. You’ve had—you’ve been dealing with Kady.”

Julia sighed. “Still am.”

Quentin nodded. It tracked that Julia was mature enough to handle the whole fucking thing without—whatever this was. But—Quentin was doing great, honestly. He had all his work done—and, well, not the Nonfiction Lecture work. But like. Everything else. His professor said he was brilliant. “I’m—I’m sorry I can’t—I’m not a help. With that. You’re hurting. And I’m—not a good friend.”

“Yeah, because you’re _fine_ ,” Julia said.

He glared at her. “I am. I don’t appreciate your sarcasm, _Julia_.” 

“Q, have you called Cynthia?”

“Who?” Quentin squeezed his eyes shut. His therapist. “Oh. Um. No, not yet. I canceled our appointment—two days ago. I think. Monday, yeah.”

“You canceled therapy after Eliot—”

Quentin held up his hand. “Jules, please do not mention him to me. I am—not able to—to talk about this right now, okay? I like—” His heart beat like a snare drum, deafening and erratic, and he reflexively clutched at his chest, throat clicking again and again as he swallowed. 

“Q, here’s what we’re going to do.” She laced her fingers through his. Her hands were so lovely and small and graceful. “We’re going to call Cynthia and get you in for tomorrow. I’m going to help you draft an email for any courses you need to take incompletes in—”

“I won’t—I won’t need to take incompletes. I got my story in early for Fiction 535, and I wrote ten poems. For the poetry course. I have one other story due for my Prose lecture, but it’s like—supposed to be five pages. I can—I can do that in my sleep—”

“Except you haven’t slept. Q, we’re going to email the professors, regardless. Okay? Any other assignments?”

“An essay for International Nonfiction. I mean, I don’t—I’m not going to do like, a—I can’t take incompletes. The fiction writing MFA program doesn’t allow it. And I can’t—I’m not losing this, too. Okay?” Tears sprung to his eyes, his chest tight. God, he was so right about Eliot. That first night when he’d told Quentin he wanted him, Quentin had known better, hadn’t he? Eliot had worn him down—and why? For fun? For fucking money? He shook his head at Julia. She was watching him with a little crease between her eyebrows. “I’m—what am I supposed to say? I got my— _heart broken_? And I’m—fucking—sad? I’m sure the program director will fucking love that. I’ll be kicked the fuck out.” He cracked his knuckles and shook out his hands. His body felt—cold. Was it cold in here? Was it cold outside? He shivered, his teeth chattering, the noise banging around in his head.

“Listen to me, Q. You have clinical depression. You’re in a fucking—” She gestured at him.

“Captain Downward Spiral?”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “No. You’re at the edge of a _possible_ depressive episode, and we’re going to get you out of it. Okay?”

“I’m—I’m _fine_.”

“You will be. But you’re not right now. And it’s okay that you’re not fine. Got it? It’s—this is my fault.” She squeezed his hand. “You didn’t want this. This is—this is exactly what you told me would happen—”

“No—no. We don’t—we don’t do this anymore,” he said, his voice breaking. “Remember?” They’d fought, and it was so bad—God, he thought Julia would never speak to him again with his stupid ‘nice guy’ bullshit after the umpteenth time she and James had broken up. And she didn’t even know about the rest of it.

“No. I know.” Julia was blinking back tears now. “Q, you’re my best friend. I’m not going to let this take you back there—I’m going to see you through this. Okay?”

“Okay.” Quentin took in a deep, shaky breath. He looked down at the eggs and slightly burnt toast, and his stomach turned over. 

Julia squeezed his hand again. He had forgotten that she was still holding it. “Easier than Alice, maybe?” 

There was a note of hopefulness in her voice. Yeah, you know, anyone might think that. He’d been with Alice a year. They’d talked about getting married eventually—Jesus, well, _he_ had. He was such a pathetic fuck for ever thinking she— _well_. He bit down on his lip, toying with a piece of dry skin and pulling it up with his teeth. The raw patch of his skin tasted like blood. A concentrated, low sob sat in his chest, his throat releasing a small, steady sound, a ruthless keening pushing its way out of him, like helium releasing from a balloon. He pulled his knees up, tucking his head down and pressing his teeth against his soft flannel pajama bottoms. The sob cracked, breaking open, a dam releasing. Into his knees, he shook his head, his body quaking. “No,” he said, hoarse. “No. Worse.” 

Julia let go of Quentin’s hand and put it to his knee, shaking him a little. “Hey—okay. I’m going to—get you a Xanax—”

“I don’t n-need one,” Quentin said, hot tears seeping down to his skin.

“You do. You’re going to take it. You’re going to shower. And you’re going to eat. Then—we’ll take a nap, okay?”

He nodded, his body quaking, wracked with sobs. “Okay, okay,” he repeated, softly. “Yeah. Okay.”

He was dimly aware of Julia shuffling around his room, picking up his discarded suit—it was still in a puddle on the floor—and putting it away in his closet. A bottle of pills rattled in a dark corner of his mind, and he placed the little pink disc on his tongue when Julia gave it to him, washing it down with a sip of coffee. Julia punched him on the arm—with force—when he revealed he’d forgotten his Wellbutrin and Abilify the past three mornings. She watched as he swallowed them. A hazy memory of his second hospitalization hit him—one of the nurses holding his mouth open, checking if he’d hid any pills in his cheek. There was the rush of running water down the hall, steam spilling out of the bathroom as she walked him down, a towel draped over one arm. 

“I’ll order Chinese if you’d rather have that. There’s that place that opens at ten,” she said, pushing him into the bathroom, shoving a pile of clean clothes on the bathroom counter. 

He nodded weakly. “Yeah. Um. Some of the rice noodles. With broccoli and chicken. I could—I could maybe eat that.”

“Okay. I’m getting an email drafted for the department. Right? Worst case you’ll be a couple of weeks late with some of your work. They know better than to fuck with the ADA. This bitch knows what she’s doing, okay?”

“Yeah.” He stood at the door of the bathroom, watching Julia as she zipped around their apartment, gathering up her problem-solving supplies. “Jules—”

“Hm?” She turned, brows knitted.

“Thanks. And I’m sorry.” 

“We don’t do that anymore,” she said. “Oh, and I’m either getting your phone fixed or having your dad order a new one. Got it? He needs to know you’re okay.”

He nodded. After that, he let the hot water run over him for a long time.

~~***~~

When he and Julia were in middle school, before the depth of his crush on her had been fully realized, before his parents got divorced, before James, his parents let them have camp outs in the tent he kept in the attic room at their house. They fell asleep talking about Madeleine L’Engle and Fillory and _Star Trek_ , their bodies facing each other like a closed set of parentheses. They were like that now in Quentin’s bed. Julia had changed the sheets and put a clean comforter over top of them, and she let Quentin put on his best of The National mix, even though she argued it wasn’t going to make his depression any better.

“How many times have you listened to ‘Hey Rosey?’”

“Dunno. A lot.” He bit absently at a hangnail.

“I got your phone to work,” she said. “Screen is fucked.”

“Yeah?” Thoughts fell into his mind, slow and orderly, tempered by the miracle of benzodiazepines. Concerns lapped at his mind, but they receded like waves washing back to the sea, only a hint of foam left in their wake. “Could you text my dad? I don’t wanna look at it.”

_At the phone. Don’t want to look at the phone._

“Already did.” She yawned. There was a pause. “You have other texts.”

Quentin bit at his lip. “I bet.”

“Do you wanna know?”

“Not really.” Another pause. “Maybe.”

“Twenty-three texts from Eliot. Six from Margo.”

“You read them. You big snoop.” He chuckled a little. His head was full of pink cotton.

Julia nodded. “High level summary?”

Quentin nodded slowly. “Fine. Yes.”

“Eliot wants to see you. Margo thinks you need to see Eliot. That’s it. That’s the story.”

“Did he say—did he—um.” Quentin pressed the heels of his palms against his cheekbones. He didn’t even know what there was to ask. 

“Q, the texts are all there if you want to read them. But you need to do it yourself when you’re ready. And it’s okay if you’re not ready right now.”

“What if I—should I see him?” Quentin tucked his knees up again, holding himself in a little ball. 

“I don’t know.” Julia touched his hair, brushing a few still-wet strands away from his face. “I think that—” She paused, letting out a long, slow breath. “—the truth is more complicated than—you know, Marina wanted us to believe one thing because Eliot and Kady pissed her off. And she’s a narcissist. So she gave us one part of the truth. She wanted to drop a big chaos bomb, and she succeeded.”

“But Eliot—”

“—was a total dumb ass. And a dick.”

The room was quiet apart from the banging of the radiator and the eerie creaking from the old plaster walls. The building they lived in was over a hundred years old—in poor repair but still stately, a piece of New York history. Hundreds of tenants had been through here—people had grown up, grown old, made families within these walls, sharing contentment and rage and grief and unbearable joy. Maybe someone who’d lived here in the preceding century had lain in Quentin’s closet-sized bedroom, wondering if he’d been in love or just a fool, attempting to push away the idea that life might no longer be worth living. He wished he had the answers from those who’d come before, from anyone. He balled his hands up into fists, nails digging into his palms. 

“I miss him.”

“Yeah, I know you do.” Julia’s lips drew into a thin line. She was watching him like she was trying to put together the missing piece of a puzzle. “Worse than Alice, huh?”

“Yeah. I know that sounds stupid—” He closed his eyes again. The world beneath his eyelids floated, images breaking into soft pieces. “—but I’m—you know. I think I hadn’t felt that way—like, I hadn’t. Felt quite like that. Even with Alice.”

“I thought you were okay. When you went to class on Monday.” Julia’s voice was gentle and low; he loved the soft rasp of it. 

“He made me feel like—um. Like I was special. Like—the guys I’d been with hadn’t—made me feel. That way.”

“I thought it was just Matteo.”

“Oh, um. What?”

“You said ‘guys.’” 

“Oh.”

“Stop saying ‘oh’.” She poked at his shoulder, smiling. “Is there someone I don’t know about?”

Quentin groaned and pulled his pillow over his face. “No,” he said from beneath the pillow.

“There is. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Julia. _Stop_.”

“What? Is it someone I know?”

Quentin was silent, swallowing hard and listening to the weird internal reverberation of his throat clicking. If he could just float out of his body and float into like, a robot body so he didn’t have a body that made weird noises anymore, that would be just _great_. And maybe in the process, he could escape Julia’s probing. “Jules. Seriously, I—I don’t wanna talk about it.” 

The room went quiet again, and Quentin’s eyelids started going heavy, sinking, inexorable, toward sleep. He thought Julia might be drifting off, too. Her breathing had evened out, and the bed hadn’t shifted with her movement in a while. But when Quentin lifted his head and put it back on top of his pillow, her dark eyes met his. “It was James, wasn’t it?”

“What? No. It— _no_.”

“Oh my God.” She put her hand over her mouth and laughed like she was delighted. “Jesus, I knew it. It was that—that weekend I was away—oh my God. He was acting so fucking weird when I got back.” She pushed Quentin’s shoulder. He curled up even further into himself. “He always had a crush on you. You dirty bitch.” She started laughing again. 

“It was him. Okay—it was—we were. We were drinking—and he was lonely. It wasn’t—wasn’t _my idea_.” 

“Q, it’s fine.”

“You’re not mad?”

“No. I wouldn’t have been thrilled at the time. But things were hard with us, even then.” A big, cheesy grin crept across her face. “I just didn’t know how _hard_ they were between you and James.”

“Jesus Christ. I hate you.”

When Quentin woke up, it was dark, and Julia was in the living area, clanking around in the kitchenette. His phone was plugged in on his desk; when he picked up, he saw five new texts from Eliot. He turned and looked at the wall, staring at the chips in the plaster until Julia called him for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quentin's depression and anxiety are referenced here. He is *probably* not using his Adderall safely. He is not taking care of himself. He takes a prescribed Xanax. If that is not cool with you, be kind to yourself and skip this bit.


	19. I love him ten times more than e’er I did

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot is a moody bitch and listens to his sadness mix. He has some things to say. Quentin is receptive.

~Eliot~

Eliot’s clicked to the next song—it was really best to listen to this playlist at full volume. Kady was in her room and Margo was— _somewhere_. Ah, Edith Piaf. It was good to have something moody and _French_. He poured himself another vodka-and-whatever; it didn’t matter. He swayed to the song. Class was _over_ , and the play was done, and it was—well it was like, three in the afternoon. But that was late enough, and Eliot had only had three—maybe four—drinks so far, and this was his fourth or fifth or whatever. And Eliot could sing to “La Vie En Rose” and feel, at best, a little bit better, at worst, a little bit numb. The amount of alcohol had gotten him to a _fun_ level of drunk, not a morbid level. Not like last night, or the night before. Or two nights before that night. Today was going well. He was on the upswing. He stood by the bar for a while, humming, very much not thinking about anyone at all. Because he was Eliot Waugh, and life was perfect just the way it was.

At some point, though, he fell down on the sofa, his drink all the way drunk. Or he was all the way drunk, one or the other. He looked down into his glass and drained the last bits of vodka-something-swill as “Moon River” started to play. Call him sentimental, but he liked the Audrey Hepburn version. And Q liked that movie, didn’t he? He’d watched it instead of going to prom. That was cute, picturing him watching “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” with his dad, staying up until the wee hours all huddled up in a blanket. He liked to do that regardless of weather, like a little gnome hiding in a pile of leaves. 

Eliot laughed to himself, looked at his drink again, let out a ragged sigh. When he blinked, the backs of his eyelids hurt, like there was some kind of ugly weight behind them. When he opened them again, Margo had appeared at the kitchen counter, turning down the Bluetooth speaker and glaring at Eliot.

“Daddy needs a refill, Bambi.” Eliot swirled his glass, the remaining ice clinking against the edges. He wiped a touch of wetness away from his cheeks. 

“No.” When he raised his eyes, Margo stood in front of him with her hands on her hips. Her face was hard. “You’re cut off.” She grabbed a cardboard box from the recycling bin and started loading it with Eliot’s liquor. The _good_ liquor. Now how was he supposed to get drunk?

“What are you—where are you doing?” He knit his brows. That wasn’t right. “Where are those going?”

“Kady’s room. We’re locking them up. You’re done.”

“Bambi—”

“I _said_ , you’re done, _bitch_. Spare me with your wide-eyed puppy dog bit. I’m not susceptible.”

“Be reasonable, darling—”

“I’m being very fucking reasonable, you dick.”

“I’m—in a _difficult time_ right now.”

“Okay, Holly Golightly. That doesn’t mean you need to fucking self-destruct.”

“I’m simply—hm. Taking a _leave of absence_ from sobriety.” Eliot slumped down into the couch cushions and peered into the glass with one eye. If he had two eyes open, there were two glasses, and that was a sign he’d been drinking too much. Keeping one eye open was really the way to go with these things.

“You were never fully employed in that sector. But this is fucking ridiculous.” 

“I’m—processing my emotions.”

“You are literally doing the opposite of that.”

“This is how my brain works, Bambi. I’m just—this is what I do. I’m a fuckup. I’m certainly going to—fail out of school—”

“You don’t have to.”

“—and the goat farm is honestly—”

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ. Enough with the _goddamn_ goat farm.”

“—taking applications. I can’t—I can’t pay Kady back. I’m—I hurt— _people_. People I like. And I’m—I’m done pretending. Being—” He gestured to himself. His vest was half-buttoned, and his shirt was wrinkled, but otherwise, he was a good approximation of Eliot. He might as well be shoveling muck at a farm, though. It hadn’t worked, this person he’d created. “—this. It didn’t work. My life doesn’t work.”

“I’ve seen you like this before. And you tittied up and got over it. Stop being a sad sack of shit, and move on. You’re not going to work on a goddamn _farm_. Okay? And yeah, you fucked things up with a boy. Who hasn’t?”

“This was a truly _marvelous_ fuck up. Really, really—class A grade—beef. Fuck up.”

“Yeah, it kinda was. But you learned—”

“And what’s that, dearest? I shouldn’t go after the Mr. Kelley soft nerds? Or—I shouldn’t basically—be a trashy whore? Or—I shouldn’t enter any business deals with someone who is both more talented and smarter than I am and apparently—” He coughed and swallowed down the acrid taste of bile. “—actually able to get back with her girlfriend after—all of that that we did?”

“Who’s Mr. Kelley?”

“He wore _Star Trek_ shirts to class. Had long hair. Reminds me of Q.” He smiled, a wistful little thing. He would never see Mr. Kelley again, nor would he see Q, it seemed. It was only worthwhile to reminisce, so he should do it. He should do it more often, anyway. “Or is it the other way around? Doesn’t matter. That ship has irreparably sailed.”

“Honey, Quentin is just a boy with nice hair. There are a lot of those out there.” She sat down next to him on the drooping couch, their bodies crunching together. She took his glass and set it on the coffee table. “Now that you’ve gotten out there a little, you can do it again. If you want. When you want.”

“No,” Eliot said, shaking his head. He held his eyes closed. “That’s—that’s not what.” He draped himself around Margo. She sighed and scrunched her fingers through his curls. “He does have nice hair. He has the nicest hair.” He buried his face against Margo’s shoulder. “And his face is so pretty. He’s the prettiest face. I miss him. And I’m going to miss him for—for forever.”

Margo scratched at his scalp; a little chill ran down Eliot’s spine. “So it’s like that, huh?”

“Like what?”

“Like I thought.”

“And what did you thought, Bambi?” He took in a long breath and let it out, shaking softly against Margo. She smelled faintly of coconut like she always did after a shower; he used to hate the way coconut smelled, but he didn’t now.

“You _really_ like him. Like a big fucking sap. And now you’re being sad all over the place. It’s wrecking our entire vibe. Either you need to get over him—” 

“I can _definitely_. Definitely do that.” Eliot realized, even in his currently quite _blurry_ state, that he didn’t sound especially convincing. 

“No, you can’t. Second option is—get your shit together. Apologize—”

“He won’t respond to my texts. He’s—I don’t know if he’s read them.”

“God. It’s like I’m running a goddamn daycare. Coldwater _goes_ places. You can go to one of those places. And see him at the place. Apologize. Tell him how you feel.”

“So he can tell me to fuck off in public?”

“Maybe he’ll tell you to fuck off,” she said. “Maybe he’ll take you home and ride your dick. You won’t know until you try. He might be just as pathetic as you are.”

Eliot couldn’t bear that particular image. He hadn’t even been able to jerk off in the past week because all he’d been able to think about was Quentin. And Jesus, if that wasn’t depressing as fuck. It wasn’t that fun to masturbate when you started crying halfway through. Not that he would know. “I don’t—he _shouldn’t_ forgive me. I don’t _deserve_ someone good. Like him. My perfect boy.”

“Oh my _God_. Quit your bullshit, El. You think _Quentin_ is—eugh— _perfect_? I don’t know if you skipped the after-school special where you learn no one is fucking perfect. Let me clue you in—that’s a fucking fact. Fen annoys the shit out of me with her whole dopey ultra-positive bullshit. Her feet are weird. She cries over commercials.” 

“But Quentin _is_ —”

“No. He’s not. He’s bitchy. He wouldn’t know how to put on his own clothes if it weren’t for Julia. He’s moody as fuck. And he’s a fucking snob. He’s just a _guy_.”

“But I _love_ him.”

“ _Fuck_. You really are in over your head.” Margo tugged at him. “Look at me. I said _look at me_ , you cock.”

“Are my eyes open now?”

“No.”

“How about now?” He felt his lashes fluttering; Margo’s face started to filter into his line of vision, pieces falling in little pieces, like a pixelated image, loading piece by piece. 

“Yeah. Jesus fuck.” She cupped the side of his face with her cool hand. “Listen. Get your shit together. Take that job—”

“How’d you know about that?”

“I read your email,” she said, shrugging. “What? I show my worry in unconventional ways. I also have Quentin’s location.”

“Where’s he?” The words slurred together. 

“No. You sober up first. You call that studio. Finish your Renaissance drama paper. I’ll help you. And Kady’s going to help with the next part since she helped get you into this fucking mess.”

“How’s she gonna help?”

“She’s been singing in nightclubs all over the city. She knows people.”

“Okay, Bambi.”

“ _Now_. You’re going to drink a gallon of water, and we’re going to bang out this paper. Okay? And motherfucker, you _owe me_. Got it?”

Eliot nodded. “You have an idea?”

“Not exactly. You’re figuring this out for yourself. But I have some input.”

“Izzit gonna work?”

“I don’t know, baby. But we’ll give it our best shot. Yeah?”

Eliot nodded. “‘Kay.” 

“Oh, and you’re cleaning the fucking kitchen while you sober up. It’s disgusting.”

“Not my fault,” he protested.

“No, but you want my help, and I don’t want to do dishes.”

He shrugged. Fair was fair.

~~***~~

“She read your email?” Kady said. She stood behind Eliot in the kitchen, like she frequently did, stalking the food he was so generously crafting for the household. She leaned forward and grabbed one of his recently cleaned and chopped mushrooms, popping it into her mouth and chewing loudly.

“She did,” Eliot said. See? He could resist smacking Kady’s hand for the sake of _friendship_. Character growth. “And she called the studio on my behalf after she decided I couldn’t do it capably on my own before the deadline.” Eliot flipped the dough and rolled out out over the floured pan. “Which wasn’t the _worst_ thing that’s ever happened since I’ll be able to pay my rent next month.”

“Look, man. Take as long as you need to get yourself together—or whatever.”

“Very generous, darling. All I need from you is the one thing.”

“I’ll see what I can do. November is fucking difficult. Especially right around Thanksgiving. Every Tom, Dick, and Karen is already up there to see the fucking leaves. But I’ll press. See what I can do.”

“Thank you, truly.” He spread sun dried tomatoes over the dough and added circles of fresh manchego and fresh oregano. “I honestly don’t know what I’d be doing without you.” 

“You might actually _have_ a boyfriend. I dunno. I didn’t exactly help on that front.”

“Hm, I screwed that up all on my own, I think. I could have told him far earlier, and I didn’t. I got my just desserts. I’ve learned my lesson, et cetera.” 

“He respond to any of your texts?” 

This was probably the most emotionally honest conversation he’d ever had with Kady. It helped that they weren’t looking at each other.

“Not yet, no. Not sure if he’s read them. He might just be deleting them. No read receipt. So I’m not 100% on the viability of Margo’s plan.” Eliot was giving it a try—the being responsible and adult thing, the going after what he thought he might want thing. As Margo had been quick to point out, he’d done enough drinking, and it hadn’t done him a goddamn bit of good. He’d stopped sending strings of melodramatic texts to Quentin, and he’d picked his own ass up so he could make a good showing of being _put together_. Even if his insides were a heavy, tangled mass, he could brush up on the exterior. That’s what he was best at, anyway. Faking it. He could fake his way through this to get Margo off his back—that was the safest motivator for Eliot to keep in mind as he finished his work, went to classes, showed up for his fucking job. He couldn’t think too hard about Quentin—that was dangerous territory. The territory that led him to self-deprecation and maudlin pontification and copious substance abuse. No, Margo’s way was better. He could always trust that Margo’s ideas were going to be better than his, and this was no exception. 

“When are you going to see him?”

“When he’s back from New Jersey.”

“What’s he doing in Jersey?” 

Eliot spread bits of roasted garlic and chopped mushroom over the expanse of the dough. “Not sure. Just know that he’s there. Has been since day before yesterday.” Eliot paused, drumming his fingers on the counter. He opened the packet of dried chorizo and cut it into thin slices, placing it atop the bits of cheese already on the pizza. “Probably visiting his dad. Seems like he’s in a residential area.”

“God bless Margo’s snooping.”

“It’s been helpful in this particular situation, yes.” Eliot’s foot has started tapping of its own accord, yet again. It started after he sobered up two days ago, and it’s been going since then. He thought it might have something to do with anxiety or the constant, low-level threat of depression that had risen and crested the evening that Quentin walked out of the ballroom, never entirely receding since that night. 

“I can ask Jules when he’s coming back.”

Eliot shrugged. “No. I don’t want you damaging anything between the two of you. You’re doing okay?”

“Yeah. We’re fine. It’s like we’re right back at the beginning. But.” He heard Kady sigh behind him. “I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I never should have pushed it.”

“I don’t know,” Eliot said. Because he really didn’t. It had seemed so easy to use their plan as a shield for all the things he didn’t want to think about—money, school, work, Quentin. Like most of the avoidance tactics he’d tried in his quarter-century of life, falling into Kady’s plan had served only to make his life infinitely shittier and more complicated. And if he’d succeeded in shoving away his people and drowning himself in alcohol—well, he didn’t want to think about that. It was a wonder they kept him around at all. Well, they wouldn’t be able to feed themselves—so that could be his contribution. 

The oven beeped, and he slid the pizza inside. He heard the thump of small feet on the stairs and looked back to see Margo, holding up her phone. “Coldwater’s back in the city. Thought I’d let you know so you could get your shit together and stop moping around like someone took your favorite toy.” 

Kady snickered. “Ha—”

“God, that wasn’t even funny. Stop.” Without the pizza to tend to, he didn’t have anything to do with his hands. He took off his apron and balled it up, then smoothed it out and hung it up on its hook by the spice rack. He needed a cigarette, which was one vice he was _not_ prepared to skimp on this week.

“Gotta get our kicks in somehow, especially with you slouching all over the place and looking at the booze like you wanna take it to dinner and tenderly rail it afterwards.”

“You’re not allowed to mock my—” _Sobriety?_ “—break from substance abuse.” 

“Oh? I’m not? Who was the one who dragged your ass to bed the other night? Oh— _and_ who was the one who sobered you up last time you had big feelings—”

Eliot held up a hand, cringing. He was beginning to sense a theme about his method of coping with breakups, and it didn’t put him in a favorable light—nor did it put alcohol in a favorable light. That was a notion he’d have to revisit under less trying circumstances. “Those feelings were not the same as these feelings,” Eliot said uselessly. Different emotional quagmire, same shitty response. 

“Look, I can get Julia here—” Kady started. 

“No,” Eliot snapped. “No. I don’t want to—I _can’t_ just corner Quentin. That’s not—I’m not deceiving him again.”

“I have zero fucking problem deceiving him,” Margo said, scrutinizing her phone. “Looks like he’s headed for the coffee shop.”

“Shit.” Eliot reached for his cigarettes, then let his hand drop. “Fuck. Okay, _no_. I’m not doing that. We’re going to eat this pizza. I am going to—” He bit the inside of his cheek. “—I don’t know what I’m going to do. I am now _taking suggestions_.”

“Dude. You’ve texted him like six thousand times?” Kady watched him expectantly.

“Around thirty times,” Eliot said, attempting a dignified tone. Kady raised an eyebrow. “What? I was trying to explain.”

“Have you _called_ him?”

Eliot sighed. “No. But it can’t be that simple.”

“It can be if you’re not entirely brainless,” Margo said. “You call him. You leave a message. Tell him you’re coming by to give him back his stuff. Didn’t Coldwater manage to leave some of his shit in your room? He was here often enough weeping about how majestic your dick is.” 

Eliot huffed. “He left one of his hoodies here. But it’s—mine by right. When this all—” He made the universal gesture of a bomb going off. 

Margo ignored him. “Tell him you’re bringing him his hoodie. And that you’ve got a few things to say. Then you go and gently _remind_ him—”

“How majestic his dick is?” Kady finished. 

“Bingo.”

It was a bad sign that they were finishing each other’s sentences. “I feel like this is going to end a tragedy.” 

“It’s a comedy,” Kady said. She shrugged when Eliot looked at her. “It is. This is the—denouement or whatever. I swear.” 

“Just because your shit worked out doesn’t mean I will,” Eliot said. 

“Doesn’t mean you won’t,” Kady said, shrugging. 

Eliot groaned and reached for his cigarettes, making his way to the postage stamp that passed as a balcony. He was dimly aware of the pizza timer going off behind him. Let Kady deal with it. She could probably figure out how to use a pizza slicer without cutting off her arm. _Probably._

When he tapped the pack of cigarettes against his hand, he was aware of the balcony door opening behind him. “Honey, I know you’re the High King of dramatics, but you gotta quit your bullshit and figure out your next move.”

“I haven’t even _lit this cigarette_ , Bambi. Give Daddy a chance to get some nicotine.” Eliot jammed one in his mouth and flicked his Zippo open, his hands shaking a little as he lit it. He watched the flame for a moment before putting it away. “You know, with Mike, you just told me to move the fuck on and forget his dumb face.”

Margo snickered. “Yeah, I sure did, El. No regrets.”

“And Quentin is different?”

“Yeah. But you already know he’s different.” She stepped up next to him and leaned against the balcony. “I like the little nerd. Mike was a douchebag. He was a whole delivery truck full of douchebags.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess right. Mike was shit for you. Honestly, he was just shit. For anyone who came near him. I don’t know what kind of hold he had on you—”

“Let’s not rub it in, shall we?”

“What I’m saying is that Q is good for you. He’s brainy and bitchy and _weird_. He went to the gay prom with you even though he’d rather have his teeth pulled out through his dick than go to a crowded event where he has to wear a tie. And he gave you a blow job half way through.”

“Oh—and where’d you get _that_ information.”

“Didn’t know for sure. But now I do.”

“Do you think—will he answer if I call him?”

“Fucked if I know. I do know he won’t go down on you in Lerner Hall again if you _don’t_ call him.”

“I suppose.”

“You ‘suppose?’” 

He took a drag of the cigarette. “I just—I don’t even feel like myself anymore.”

“People change. I didn’t think I’d wanna be with anyone long-term until I met Fen.”

“Do you,” Eliot said, voice low, “love her?”

Margo fixed him with a gaze like she was trying to puzzle something out, taking Eliot’s words and weighing each one. “Huh. Yeah. I think I do. Like I said, she annoys me less than most other people. That’s a very fucking short list that includes you, Kady and Fen.”

“How’d you know?”

“There’s not a fucking checklist. I wish there were—that would make it a fuck of a lot simpler.”

“Yeah, it would.”

“Call him after dinner. You have nothing to lose.” 

“God, don’t remind me. What a depressing sentiment.”

~~***~~

The message he left on Quentin’s voicemail was clipped, hiding away the emotions he’d been spewing at his friends for the last few days. Well, after trying to drink them away. He hadn’t expected Quentin to pick up, but he was nonetheless disappointed when he hadn’t. ” _Q, it’s me. I have your hoodie. I’m going to bring it by at seven. I hope you’ll be around. Bye._

Eliot knew it was stupid, but he put on the forest green button-down and the gold paisley tie that Quentin liked. There was a vest, too—he’d hunted it down—it was dark blue with gold embroidery at the seams. He made sure his curls were well tousled. If he was going to fight for his relationship, he was going to wear his armor.

It was crisp when he walked to the station, a breeze stirring up leaves on the sidewalk. He had Quentin’s hoodie in hand, which he really did want to keep for _reasons_. It still smelled just a little bit like Quentin—fabric softener, a hint of his Dove deodorant, the vague smell of mango shaving gel right around the collar. He had Quentin’s gray sweater, but he’d conveniently forgotten it in case things went tits up and he had to come back home empty-handed. He could keep it, for a while, anyway. Maybe claim ignorance if he ever wanted it back. As he descended the stairs, he nearly ran into someone.

“Oh—hey.” Julia stood, midway up the stairs. 

Eliot smiled, even though he probably wasn’t supposed to smile at the best friend of the guy he’d humiliated in front of a large number of people. Sue him, it was nice to see that _someone_ in his house had a tentatively successful recovery from their relationship-breaking decisions. “Hey—um. Good to see you.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say to you.”

“Fair enough. I don’t know what to say to me, either.” His eyes landed on Julia’s stuffed overnight bag. “I’m guessing Kady texted you.”

“Yeah. She’s looking out for you, I guess. You—” Julia sighed and closed her eyes. “I know you actually care about Quentin. You just fucked up, like really big time, royally fucked up.”

“Yeah, I did.” There wasn’t any other response to that. 

“I wouldn’t be giving you the time of day if Kady hadn’t told me how fucked up you’ve been.”

“I’m always kind of… fucked up,” he said. The great Liquor Clean Out had been followed by the great Playlist of Sorrow Conversation (Margo and Kady, known philistines, had gotten sick of Edith and Billie Holliday and maybe especially sick of “Moon River.”) And the River of Tears and Maudlin Pronouncements Fen had encountered a few days ago. He wasn’t going to get into that. “But I’ve been worse than usual recently.” A pause; Julia’s eyes on him. “I haven’t—” he floundered, waved his hand, “—felt like this. About anyone. I’m not sure if I give him what he needs. I’m a fuckup, and I’m broke. But I—” His stomach leapt. “—I want to try.”

“Quentin doesn’t care about _stuff_. Like he was blown away by the fancy date, but I think it was because you thought of it. Not because you had the money to do it.” 

Theoretically, Eliot knew this about relationships. He wasn’t stupid, and he’d seen his fair share of films where the main character learned that compatibility or laughter or something was more important than material wealth. As a general truth, money might not be the key to happiness, but it _helped_ a lot more than Hallmark would have the world believe. (The idea that love outweighs money, in fact, had turned Hallmark into a multi-billion dollar corporation with cheesy cards and Christmas movies.)

He probably shouldn’t argue, but he couldn’t leave it. “I only _thought_ of the date because I had the cash to pull it off.”

Julia rolled her eyes. “He just wants _you_. He was thrilled that day you went for a walk in the park. He doesn’t need _things_. He’s just not like that.” She shrugged like it was simple to make that kind of pronouncement. Mike had always wanted Eliot at events, looking pretty and presentable, fetching drinks and making small talk. In the end, all the performing Eliot had done had taken away pieces of him, leaving little hollow spots behind. It wouldn’t take a genius to connect the dots as to how and why he’d fucked up so badly with Quentin. “He’d be happy sitting in a shack if he was with you.”

“I mean—he still does? Want to be with me?”

“I don’t know. I think so. He’s been—in a not-so-great place. But he’s processing. Getting better. Adjusted his meds. I’m not sure what he’ll decide. He’s missed you—a lot.”

“Oh.” He’d hoped for— _well, Q started planning a parade as soon as he got your message_ —but this was— _workable_ , at least. And more in line with reality.

“Anyway. Girls’ night. I’ve gotta get going.”

“You’ve been accepted into the den of iniquity, I see.” He smiled, a little wistful. “Make good choices.”

Julia gave him a hesitant smile and a pat on the arm, passing him as she walked up the stairs. It would be a long, weird train ride, and maybe he’d think of what he was actually going to _say_. He hadn’t gotten that far in the plan, such as it was.

~~***~~

When Eliot got off at the 116th Street Station, it had just started to rain, a fine mist, cool on his heated face and hell on his curls. He hadn’t brought an umbrella, of fucking course, so he draped Quentin’s hoodie over his head and shoulders, bathed in his scent, in the memory of his touch. He could almost feel Quentin’s hands in his from the night they’d danced, from his lips the first time they’d kissed, the warmth of his skin as they’d rocked against each other in time with their beating hearts.

It was really all very dramatic. He was about to start singing “Moon River.”

Eliot took the stairs two at a time to Quentin’s apartment, carrying the hoodie in his arms like a baby. There was music playing, filtering softly through the door—something moody and droning and made by a label that called itself ‘indie’ but was, at this point, definitely _not_. He closed his eyes and knocked—three times, so he didn’t seem too desperate. 

Inside, there was shuffling and a very Quentin-like sigh. “Hey—I’m—hold on.” His voice was soft and low, halting. Then came the strike of footsteps across the creaking old hardwoods, the slide of the lock, metal against metal. Eliot’s heart rate picked up, frantic and scattered, a disorganized beat against the soft, low hum of the old building. The Quentin who opened the door was a different person than the one who’d left Eliot at the door of Lerner Hall ten days ago. There were bruise-dark circles beneath his eyes, and he had the look of someone who’d been skipping meals, only eating when he was reminded. His Columbia sweatshirt had seen better days, the collar and sleeves tattered at the hem from Quentin’s tugging and fidgeting; his jeans were ratty, soft and old, denim pulled taut against his thighs, but baggy at the knees. His hair was damp from the shower and pulled into a low ponytail. Seeing Quentin like this—delicate and thin, worn around the edges—picked up something in Eliot, the damaged bits that had been rattling around, forcing them to form an idea that finally made sense. The realization hit Eliot like a shot of good whiskey, like rain after a dry Indiana summer, like waking up to the sunlight filtering in through his cousin’s apartment window his first day in Manhattan—Quentin was heartbreakingly beautiful, and Eliot loved him.

“Um. Come in.” Quentin met his eyes for an instant before looking away. He gestured jerkily to the living area, which had the look of being hastily cleaned, shoes shoved beneath the sofa, a stack of books piled inelegantly on the coffee table. He glanced at Eliot again and shoved his hands in his pockets. 

“Good—I—” Eliot swallowed as he walked in, his throat full and heavy, not fully cleared of whatever was sitting there. “I thought you might not let me come in.”

“It’s like. Forty degrees. And raining. You’re soaked.” There was a little crease between his brows. “I’ll—uh. I’ll get you something to dry off.” Quentin disappeared through the bathroom door, reemerging with a fluffy, rose-colored towel that was likely from Julia’s much nicer towel stash. Eliot had the visceral memory of tending to Quentin, wiping him down—more than once. His fingers itched, longing for that touch. He’d held down his wanting for ten days now, focused on ‘fixing his shit,’ as Margo had instructed. But now, in this room, so close to Quentin, that animal need pulsed between them, thick and greedy. When Quentin handed him the towel, his index finger brushed against Eliot’s, a glance of his fingertip. Quentin took a step back; electricity thrummed in the space between them. 

“Your hoodie. I used it to keep dry. Or drier. I guess.” 

Quentin sat on the sofa, drawing one knee up close to his body. He pressed his cheek against his knee, his eyes not as angry as Eliot had expected—more _tired_ than anything. “That’s what it’s for. You can. Um.” He pointed at the coat rack by the door. 

Eliot nodded and hung it up, awkwardly stepping back so he was in Quentin’s line of sight again. He sat down in the chair perpendicular to Quentin so that he didn’t have to make eye contact through everything he was about to say. Normally, he was a slut for gazing into Quentin’s eyes, but this was _different_. Their reality had changed. “I’m sorry—I don’t know where to start.”

Quentin huffed out an irritable little laugh. “I don’t have any answers for you. Maybe—” His voice was rough, catching on the word like a snag. “—maybe we should just _not_. I know you want to—apologize or something. But I’m not sure that’s going to—cut it.”

Eliot tasted bile when he swallowed, pushing its way up past the ridge of his tongue. “No—I have to. I have to talk to you. You can kick me out after. Just—if you can give me five minutes, I swear. I’ll go if you want me to.”

There was a heavy pause. When Eliot looked at him, Quentin blinked slowly and took a long, shaky breath. “Yeah, okay.”

“First of all, I am—sorry. I can’t defend what I did—I can’t justify my actions. But I can explain _why_ —”

“You were being _paid_ —” Quentin said, an icy edge creeping into his voice. “—to deceive me. And—I don’t know how or _why_ Julia forgave Kady—but—I don’t even—”

“Q, wait—“

“Don’t. Don’t call me that. Not right now. I’ll just—I’ll let you finish. Just be quick. I—this is not as good an idea as I thought. And I didn’t even—think it was that good an idea.” 

“That’s—fair. Look, I didn’t come here to beg your forgiveness. It’s fine if you never forgive me.”

Quentin gestured for him to go on.

“I thought—I thought I could _never_ be a good boyfriend to _anyone_ after Mike and I broke up. He treated me like shit—and he told me I’d never be good enough. That I wouldn’t amount to anything because I didn’t _have_ anything. And, somewhat ironically, he didn’t like that I worked. So—he was a really solid choice.” 

Quentin’s face was blank when Eliot looked at him. That was—fine. He could keep doing this. 

“I thought I wouldn’t be with anyone, not for real, for a long time. I didn’t want any kind of relationship. I made it my mission to—stay away from that.”

Quentin laughed, a bitter little sound. But he didn’t give life to the vitriol simmering below the surface.

“But then I saw you at the coffee shop—and this is all going to sound corny to the point of being disingenuous, but hear me out—okay?”

Quentin made the faintest movement with his shoulders, something like a shrug. 

“And I knew you were dangerous. I _wanted_ you right away. Fuck—I _kept_ thinking about you. I knew that you’d want more than I could give you—”

Quentin opened his mouth, but Eliot held out his hand. 

“—no, please. You can dig into me when I’m finished. I’m just—let me. I’m just, let me just say—I knew you’d want more, and that I would, too. Even if I couldn’t voice it. I lost my job right before that first party. I couldn’t stop thinking about you, but I knew I couldn’t even take you on a _date_. And you—you didn’t want to sleep with me.”

Quentin scoffed. “Not exactly the case. But go on.”

Eliot let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “And when Kady offered to help me—she did it without conditions, really. The rent money was just because. We’re friends. She said she’d give me extra to take you out. If you’d go out with me. It was stupid and—very high school. I couldn’t even afford the coffee I was buying when I was at the Cinnamon Roll talking to you. I couldn’t afford a meal—or tickets to the fucking prom. So Kady and I made a stupid deal. And Margo kept pushing me to see you just because—she wanted to see me _happy_. And you made me so fucking happy, Quentin. 

“It was foolish—I was foolish. And I’d do it all over again if it meant that I got to spend that time with you.” Eliot brushed his sweating palms against his trousers. “And I’d do anything to make it up to you. But I don’t regret it—that’s the thing. I don’t _regret_ it because I was too stupid—and _broken_ —to go after you on my own. I was so hung up on this idea of what I _should_ be that I didn’t even want to give us a real chance. This really shitty choice I made helped me wake up—to realize that I wanted this. Us.” Heat prickled horribly over the whole of Eliot’s body, the core of him icy, toes frozen in his shoes. He knotted his hands together, pouring his tension into the tangle of his fingers, knuckles white. He waited.

“Okay,” Quentin said. “That’s a lot of things I didn’t expect—but I’m—I’ve been lied to and used a _lot_ , Eliot. I don’t know what you want from me—what you expect me to say—”

“I’m not—going to say that I won’t fuck up again. I will. Maybe, hopefully, not this bad. But I’m also—I also— _fuck_ , this is hard. I don’t—I haven’t ever—” He took another long breath. “I’m also falling in love with you, or I already am. I don’t know—that’s kind of hard to quantify, I guess.” 

The little crease on Quentin’s forehead made a showing again, one eyebrow raised almost imperceptibly above the other. He leaned forward from where he was sitting on the sofa, a world away from Eliot. His soft lips were parted. “I’m not sure if I—uh—heard you correctly.”

“I love you,” Eliot said, the back of his throat burning, his mouth filled with the taste of metal. “When I think about my life—like life beyond school—and I’ve never even done that before—never thought about anything beyond the fucking weekend. When I think about that, I think about it with _you_. I know that’s insane. We haven’t been together long—just a handful of weeks—so I know it’s—this is a lot, really fast, after I fucked up really, really bad. I just know that we’re connected. That I feel like I’ve known you for _years_. And I want to keep knowing you. I don’t know if it’ll work. Or if I even _should_ get a chance. I might not deserve one. But I know how I feel. And I want to be with you. Give it a shot. If you—want that. If not, I’ll go. But I‘m keeping your sweater.”

“You’re _what_?” Quentin scrubbed at his face, laughing, a little wild.

“Keeping—ah—” Eliot’s face cracked into a smile. “—your sweater. It smells like you.”

His eyebrows had gone up into that odd, impossible arch Eliot had noted on the very first day he saw Quentin. “That’s your—like— _ending note_?”

“I didn’t have a speech planned, exactly.” His chest had constricted down to a single hard knot, all of his viscera drawn into the superheated star of hope glowing inside. “Should I—do you want me to go?”

“No—I don’t want you to go.”

“I should stay?” 

“Yeah.” Quentin’s voice was small and soft. “Stay.”

Eliot crumpled to the floor, walking on his knees over to Quentin, who had started laughing again—but maybe also crying? They were both complete disasters. Disaster times two. Eliot pulled Quentin onto his lap, cupping the side of his face and pressing his nose just above the line of his jaw, brushing away tears with the pad of his thumb. He smelled like the mango vanilla shaving cream Eliot had given him. “You shaved.”

“I needed to shave,” Quentin said, laughing. 

“Oh yeah? You didn’t want to kiss me?”

“I always wanna kiss you. That’s like my whole problem.” Quentin nuzzled into him and wrapped his legs around Eliot’s waist. When Quentin’s mouth found his, they melted into each other, lips fitted together like puzzle pieces. Maybe it shouldn’t have been this easy, to fall into someone like this—it was terrifying, really, how drawn he was to Quentin, how quickly it had all happened—without his knowledge at first, without his permission, as time went on. He kissed at the curve of Quentin’s lower lip, flicking his tongue into Quentin’s mouth, tasting peppermint toothpaste and the camomile tea he drank in the evenings. When Eliot pulled away, he was panting.

“We should talk more. I think. Like adults,” Quentin said. Quentin’s face scrunched up against his neck, his nose wrinkling. This was right where he belonged—holding Q, the rhythm of his heartbeat sweet and steady beneath his hands.

“A lofty goal.” Eliot lifted Quentin’s shirt and ran his hands over the lightly muscled planes of his back. He realized he was shaking, teeth chattering—bone cold even though he could hear the clanking of the furnace echoing in the old walls. As his body let go of guilt and anxiety, releasing days of poor sleep and built-up tension, he slowly became aware of his shirt, soaked through to his skin—even his tie was damp. “We _should_ talk. But if you’re not going to kick me out—can I—I need to get some dry clothes before I die of hypothermia. Since you keep it at sixty-seven degrees in here at all times.”

“That just sounds like an excuse to get your clothes off,” Quentin said. He ran his hands over Eliot’s shoulders, sending delighted prickles along his arms. “But you’re pretty, uh, drenched. Even with the hoodie.”

“Your hoodie doesn’t cover much of me.”

Quentin laughed and buried his face against Eliot’s neck, apparently unwilling to actually let him stand. Eliot kissed him again because he _could_ , because he loved Quentin and he wanted him, and he was right there, warm and present and even lovelier than the angst-ridden dreams he’d lived with for the past week.

“You’re freezing. You do need to get changed.” Quentin didn’t move.

“It’s your fault I’m still sitting here.”

“I feel like—if I get up, you’ll um.” Quentin let out a ragged sigh, his fingers tugging at Eliot’s shirt, pulling it up so he could put his fingers to Eliot’s skin. “That you’ll go away.”

“Baby, I came all the way here in the rain and told you I love you. Because I do. I’m not going anywhere until you kick me out. But please don’t kick me out. I’m cold.”

“I think I have a pair of your sleep pants,” Quentin said. He cleared his throat.

Eliot smiled—trying to ignore the fact that Quentin hadn’t _said it back_. “Were you hoarding them?”

“Not intentionally.” Quentin laughed. “Like—not uh, no. Not like you said you were keeping my sweater. Not like _creepy_.”

“Hey—I figured there was a fifty-fifty chance you’d tell me to fuck off. I wanted to—to have something of yours.”

“I guess I can let you stand up.” Quentin kissed him again, making a satisfied sound when Eliot’s tongue glanced against his. A jolt of forgotten need ran through his body when Quentin pulled Eliot’s lower lip between his teeth.

“C’mon. I’m cold. Up with you.”

Quentin stood and helped Eliot to his feet, pulling him to the bedroom, where Quentin got very distracted by Eliot changing into a faded Columbia t-shirt and the navy modal joggers that Eliot had _maybe_ left at Quentin’s place on purpose. They kept _making out_ like teenagers, with Quentin’s warm hands roaming over his skin, leaving goose flesh in their wake. “I should just keep you like this. Just—mostly naked,” Quentin said—because he was a _menace_.

“Have you eaten?” Eliot ran a thumb over Quentin’s jawline after he pulled on the dry, soft shirt that smelled of Quentin’s lavender fabric softener.

“No. But I had—something for lunch.” He thought for a moment. “Okay, I think I forgot to eat lunch. But I just wanna—” He grabbed Eliot’s hands and put them around his waist. “Just touch me.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Q. Remember—we need to talk like rational adults. You _said_.”

“Oh yeah. Sounds hard and—boring,” Quentin said, laughing. “It’s—this is all I’ve thought about, and I’m just—sick of it. Okay? Can we—can we just accept that this was really shitty, and now it’s okay for tonight?”

“Of course. But you also need to _eat_.” 

“Okay—okay. Maybe _after_ we—”

“Stop tempting me. I have things to say—okay? Come on. We’re ordering food. I couldn’t eat before I came here. I just— _couldn’t_. So we’re doing that. And I have something for you.”

Quentin raised an eyebrow but let Eliot herd him back to the sofa and bully him into ordering bagel sandwiches and chips. While they were waiting for their food, Eliot pulled Quentin into his arms, wrapping him up and kissing his hair, dipping his fingers into the collar of Quentin’s shirt just to feel him shiver. 

“You’re not helping your case.” Quentin linked his fingers with Eliot’s, warm and solid. “Because now I don’t care at all about food. I just wanna take you to bed—”

“Yeah, you can and you will. But first—” Eliot ghosted his lips against Quentin’s neck, taking him in, the comforting scent of his skin, the tickle of hair against his nose. “—I have something for you. What are you doing right after Thanksgiving?”

“Isn’t that like, next weekend? Like eight days from now?”

“Yeah. That’s the one.”

“Nothing. Eating leftovers and watching _X-Files_ with my dad. Family tradition.”

“I got a reservation at this bed and breakfast next to a winery, and Kady’s letting me borrow her car since she’s staying in town.” Eliot let his hands wander down over Quentin’s thighs, squeezing gently to feel the firm-soft give of his flesh beneath the well-loved denim.

“She’s—she’s got a _car_?”

“She also _apparently_ got a deal with Netflix, which she’s managed to keep secret for two months. So. That money didn’t come from tips. She’s been doing vocals for some show that’s supposed to be a secret. It sounds boring as fuck—the show. But it pays well. She had some kind of NDA since it’s a secret release.”

“Shit. Julia knows?”

“Yeah, she does. She told Julia before she told her parents, like the trash baby she is.”

“I thought her parents were— _oh_. You mean you and Margo.” Quentin rolled his eyes, head pressed back against Eliot’s shoulder. The corner of Quentin’s mouth twitched, drawing into a little half-smile.

“Guilty as charged. So about the bed and breakfast—there’s a spa.”

“Eliot, this is the shit that got us fucked up in the first place. I don’t need fancy trips or wineries or massages or whatever. I can’t do that if it’s just—you trying to impress me or whatever. Okay? I can’t.”

Eliot wrapped his arms tighter around Quentin, breathing him in. “Baby, one of the people Kady works with owns the place. It’s free. Kady feels like shit, so she wanted to do something.”

“Yeah, but I don’t need—”

“Okay, but I do. I want to do something stupidly romantic and be a real couple and pretend like we’re actual adults—”

“We are technically actual adults.”

“Listen, you are _trying my patience_.” He gripped Quentin tight around his middle, sighing a little as his taut little body squirmed against him. “I’m saying I want to do this. For you. With you. And—I actually have a job that starts when break is over. A real job. It’s an ad campaign for menswear—”

“Oh my _God_ , you’re a _model_ —”

“Hush. It’s like Dress Barn for men. It’s nothing to write home about. But they really like my ‘look.’ That’s what they said. And it pays a fuckload compared to the bar. It’s not Othello on Broadway, but it’ll pay the bills. And when I graduate, it’s one connection.”

“I’m glad you have what you want,” Quentin said. “I still don’t need— _things_. Nothing but you. I just—I wanted you, just all along. I don’t care if you’re scraping pennies off the sidewalk. But I’m proud of you.”

“I’m proud of me, too.”

Quentin laughed, and Eliot held him, quiet for a while, feeling the warmth of their heartbeats, the _possibility_ between them. After they’d eaten and talked about nothing in particular—not the ‘adult talk’ they’d both intended to have—they stumbled into the bedroom, both too worn out to do anything but cling to one another in the dark and fall, blissfully, asleep.

~~***~~

When Eliot woke, it was still dark outside, and he gasped for breath, a hard weight pressed over his heart.

In undergrad, he’d signed up for a class on Asian American lit for his English credit. There wasn’t anything else available that had sounded interesting in the least. The books he actually read for the class were good, but they had now faded into a haze in the background of his memory. He wasn’t much of a literary fiction person. The books he did like were _brutal_ —they sparked his brain in just the right way. So, _Woman Warrior_ by Maxine Hong Kingston had stayed with him, even after five years had passed. The image of the sitting ghost kept coming back to him this week. It was applicable to so much of what he felt when his past came back to him, when, in the moments before sleep or upon just waking, he felt _crushed_ by the reality of being who he was. She’d written about the ghost, so base and terrifying that it didn’t even possess the true shape of an animal—all mouth and teeth and suffocating weight, looming over her in the dark, sitting on her chest, a reminder not only of her harrowing past but of her current failings.

He thought about that ghost a lot. It had followed him to New York from Indiana, and he’d woken with that crushing weight many early mornings when he should have been sleeping still. In the past week and a half, it had been so heavy and so present that he’d tried to drink it away, numb the nerve endings so he could no longer feel it. He felt it still, looming just above him, waiting to smother him, erase all the things he’d tried to wish away, tried to disguise, strip him bare and sink in—not killing him, just forcing him to walk with it, to _see himself_ , the worst of all punishments.

The very air around him trembled with that ever-present pain. It had drawn ever nearer when he’d watched Quentin run away into the night, away from him.

When he turned now to Quentin, he buried his hand in his now-dry hair, twisting it around his fingers like a lifeline. Quentin was _here_. There were no guarantees that this wouldn’t end horribly. But this—his gentle presence against Eliot in the dark—reminded him that it was _possible_ to keep a love like this. People did it, somehow. He pressed his lips to Quentin’s forehead, and he shifted in his sleep, stretching and drawing nearer to Eliot’s body, bare skin against bare skin, warm and thrumming with life. 

He grumbled, his mouth against Eliot’s collarbone. “Wha’ time izzit?”

“It’s late,” Eliot whispered. “Early. One of those.”

He felt Quentin smile against him. He moved and pushed one leg between Eliot’s, drawing him closer and curling his fingers in Eliot’s chest hair. “You smell so good.” Quentin’s mouth moved against his skin.

Something stirred in Eliot’s body, a sparkle of hunger he’d tamped down, one of those pesky needs he’d tried to bury when he thought he’d fucked this up for good. “Yeah? What do I smell like?”

“Like rain, tonight. Like the sidewalk after a rain. Not a gross sidewalk. A nice one.” Quentin kissed a line across his collarbone, and Eliot placed a hand on Quentin’s thigh. “And lime. And—sandalwood or something. Amber. I don’t know. I just know I like it.” Quentin’s nose poked against the center of his chest.

“Are you sniffing me?” Eliot _squeezed_ just a little. He liked the hair on Quentin’s legs, his arms. His chest and his stomach. He closed his eyes and let his hand roam. His cock was _not_ disinterested in this development, even if he knew he needed to sleep. Tomorrow was Sunday, and the week of Thanksgiving was always a joke. He’d stay as long as Quentin would have him. Keep him in bed until Christmas.

“What would you say if I was?” He let out a breath, hot against Eliot’s skin. He moved and buried his nose very obviously in Eliot’s armpit. “Mmm.”

“Mmm, I don’t know.” He took Quentin’s hand in his and moved it to his cock, growing hard now, and excited, vibrating buzz circling in his hips and down his thighs. “Why don’t you just—” Quentin made a sharp little noise, surprised and—something else, too. Something only for them, here in the dark. His fingers wrapped around Eliot’s cock, moving in an exploratory stroke. “—yeah—just like that—and I can tell you how I _feel_ about how very weird I think you are.”

Quentin laughed, his tongue darting out against the tender skin right by the crook of his arm, stroking Eliot from root to tip, _agonizingly slow_. “El,” he said, almost pained, “you’re so big. I want you inside me—fuck, I’ve thought about it so much—”

Eliot’s nipples were tight and heavy, pressure forming low in his balls. “I want that, too,” he murmured. He squeezed Quentin’s leg. “You don’t know how much I’ve jerked off thinking about you—” Quentin’s hand started moving faster, still tight and hot and— _God_ —how was he so good at that? “—walking around feeling where I fucked you that morning. But—”

“No—don’t tease me—I _wanna_ —” Quentin whined. 

“Shh, don’t whine at me.” Fuck, he was hard. He could listen to Quentin beg for his dick for _days_ —fuck it, _decades_ —and never get tired of it. If this is what their relationship was like, he’d fucking take it. He guessed bestowing Quentin with the label of ‘boyfriend’ made him extra bold. The last time he’d done it, he ended up getting a blow job in a dressing room. He’d have to just—keep doing it. “It’s my dick. I get to decide what to do with it.”

Quentin huffed. “I’d stop jerking you off but I don’t wanna.” He sucked at a spot just above the swell of Eliot’s pec, sending a jolt through his cock as Quentin guided his thumb up over the tip, smearing a bead of precome down over his glans. He’d like his boy to mark him up now that they were _together_. He shivered.

“You want my cock, baby? Missed me?” 

Quentin whimpered. “Missed you a lot. You sure you’re not gonna fuck me?”

“I wasn’t sure before. But now I’m _definitely_ sure.”

“That’s no fair,” Quentin huffed.

“I promise you won’t complain. That’s your money back guarantee.”

“No more talking about money... and—I’m sure I can find a way to complain.” Quentin traced the underside of Eliot’s cock, with one finger and squeezed at the base. Eliot thrust into the tight warmth of his fist, biting his lip. He pressed his lips to Quentins, soft and yielding in the dark. 

“You know—I’ll take that back.”

“The part about not fucking me?”

“No. The part about you not complaining. I’m sure you can find a way.”

Quentin grumbled. “Then what _are_ you going to do? Cuz I wanna get you off.”

He rubbed his nose against Quentin’s. “Something you’ll like. Nothing you don’t like. I wanna get you so turned on you don’t remember your own name.” He ghosted his fingers over the satiny skin of Quentin’s cock, smiling as Quentin startled and whined, open-mouthed, against the meat of Eliot’s shoulder. He moved his hand lower and slipped his fingers between Quentin’s thighs. “Then I’m going to make you come when you’re losing your mind. And _then_ , I’m going to make an absolute mess of you.”

Quentin made a low, agonized noise. 

“Yeah? You like that idea?” He laughed and kissed the ridge of Quentin’s ear, the little place where it poked out, soft hair falling over it. 

“Mm, yeah I—” Quentin’s words cut off when Eliot grasped him and started to stroke, steady and even, his hand enveloping Quentin’s cock. In the dark, he could hear the repetitive brushing of his hand, the choked off sounds from deep in Quentin’s chest. 

“I could make you come just like this. You’d like that.” He slowed the timing of his strokes, tucking himself in close to Quentin’s body, pushing his length against Quentin’s and catching them both together. “You feel—you feel so good.” He bit his lip again, hard, realizing he’d drawn blood when the sharp burst of copper hit his tongue. 

“Mmnh, _Eliot_. Oh my God, you’re _so big_.”

“You’ve said.” He pressed a kiss to Quentin’s forehead, his hips arching forward, seeking more sensation—friction and warmth, slickness starting to cover both of them. He grinned in the dark, taking his hand away and rolling Quentin onto his stomach.

“What the—what are you—”

“Hands and knees,” he said. “Come on.” 

“Oh my God—it’s like four in the morning.”

“No whining.” He ran his nails up the length of Quentin’s spine, his fingertip roaming back down over the same line. Quentin’s ass was lovely and round in the low light; Eliot grabbed a handful of it. “Hands and knees.”

“Jesus. I just wanna lie down.” Quentin sighed. 

“Do you wanna get off?”

Quentin made an irritated nose, snickering into the pillow. “Yeah but—” 

“Yeah so— _come on_. I’m not that desperate. I could do this all night, baby. Until the sun comes up.” He pushed Quentin’s legs apart and pressed a finger to the cleft between his cheeks, biting the inside of his cheek when he felt the soft clench and release against his fingertip. “

Quentin made a low, punched out sound, pushing back against Eliot’s hand. Eliot swept his hands up to massage the muscles of Quentin’s lower back, the tensed muscles of his ass. “Fuck, _Eliot_ —stop teasing—”

“Stop being lazy, pretty boy.” He pressed his thumbs into the sides of Quentin’s hips, running his hands down over his nicely hairy thighs, pressing his fingers into the muscles, working his way back up to Quentin’s ass. “Come on. I’m gonna spoil you. Make you feel so good.”

“Well, now since I’m all the way awake—”

“You’re so uncooperative—and I just wanna—” Eliot pressed his hands between Quentin’s thighs again, brushing his fingers back against his hole, closing his eyes and shuddering when Quentin trembled against him, moaned into the pillow as he circled his fingers, pressing in the barest bit. Quentin was so warm and responsive just there, and Eliot was so _hard_ , his cock heavy between his legs, his nipples hard and cheeks flushed and hot. “—just wanna spoil you. Lemme make you feel good.”

Quentin groaned, sounding _incredibly put out_ , and got to his hands and knees. Eliot couldn’t make out his features—the only light coming in was from the street lamps and cars outside—but he could tell Quentin was looking back at him, maybe a little expectant, maybe also a little annoyed. 

“Good boy.”

“Oh my Jesus, Eliot.”

“Mm, I think I want the light on. I wanna see you.”

“Fine,” he said, tetchy as fuck. Eliot was— _so fucking turned on_ —his dick had really started doing the thinking. He had a handful of Quentin’s thigh, just holding him, pressing his fingers in and—he pulled back his hand, smacking Quentin—just _lightly_ —right on the meat of his ass. And Quentin—Quentin huffed and made a long, low, _needy_ sound.

Eliot leaned over to the bedside table and turned on the light. “You _liked_ that, huh?” He hadn’t even hit Quentin’s nice little ass hard enough to make it pink, but Q was _panting_ now, looking back at Eliot with his eyes blown dark, his cheeks slapped-red. 

Quentin’s breathing was ragged. “Yeah,” he said, sounding _wrung out_. 

Eliot reached between his legs, grasping his cock and stroking it once-twice-three times, watching Quentin’s body tense up, almost curling around Eliot’s hand. When he pulled his hand away, there was wetness against the edge of his finger. Eyes on Quentin’s, he licked it away. “Oh, fuck, baby, you—you’re _gorgeous_. God, I’m—I’m—” Bright flickers of hope and love and the things he’d been hiding from for so long grew inside of him, breaking open. He leaned over Quentin’s back, quaking with it, kissing along the muscles of his shoulders, lips pressed to the knob of his spine. “I’m glad you took me—wanted me back. I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

Quentin craned his neck back, shoulder popping as he pressed his lips to Eliot, hot and desperate. Eliot settled his cock against the taut channel of his ass, hand wrapped around Quentin’s chest, pressed to his beating heart, their lips sliding together, wet and messy. “Mm—I didn’t really have a choice,” Quentin mumbled against Eliot’s lips. 

He rubbed his nose against Quentin’s cheek. “God—fucking—I’m so fucking relieved.” Eliot thumbed at one pebbled nipple, panting and drawing back, leaning to Quentin’s bedside table to grab the lube he kept there. “I’m gonna—gonna show you.” He drizzled lube over Quentin’s ass, dragging his fingers against the slick furl of his hole, pushing in with just the tip of one finger. 

Quentin’s breath hitched, and he pressed back against Eliot’s finger, taking it further. Eliot sighed, dripping more lube over his fingers and pushing just a hint further, to the second knuckle, fucking it in a bit further, drawing back again, watching, rapt, the little tremors and movements of the muscles in Quentin’s lower back. He slid back in to the root, grunting with approval as Quentin’s entire body just _quivered_. 

“You should just—mm—” Eliot slipped in a second finger, admiring the stretch, the way Quentin pushed back, laughing because he _knew_ what Quentin was going to say. “—you should just fuck me—”

“Uh huh,” Eliot said, watching his fingers disappear inside Quentin, in and out, his dense little body awake and wanting, just drawing Eliot in. “What, you want me to stop?”

“ _No_.”

Eliot twisted his fingers, barely brushing against Quentin’s prostate and watching him nearly buckle with the pleasure of it. “Lemme take care of you. Just—trust me.”

Quentin kept letting out little strangled sounds as Eliot opened him, carefully, slowly, driving him closer to the edge and pulling back, watching his body respond and silently beg for more. When he slipped a third finger inside, Quentin’s fingers and toes tangled in the sheets, a half-strangled sound coming from the back of his throat. “El— _El_ —I’m—you gotta back off if you—I’m _close_.”

Eliot stilled his hand, relaxing his muscles. “You wanna come now, baby? Or later?”

“Later— _later_ —just—mmmnh.” Quentin pushed back against his hand again, fingers white knuckled against his sheets. 

Eliot pulled his fingers out, thumbing at Quentin’s hole just to hear him whimper. He reached for the lube again, pouring a little pool in his hand. “I love your thighs, baby.” Quentin made a sound that might have been a word, but he couldn’t quite make it out. He spread Quentin’s thighs with one hand, heat sparking in his own cock as he pressed his hand to Quentin’s desperately hard, wet cock and the soft weight of his balls.

Quentin was panting, trying to look back, see what Eliot was doing. His neck and ears and cheeks were all covered in patches of pale pink, so flushed and pretty. 

“Anyone ever fucked you here?” Eliot squeezed the inside of Quentin’s thigh. He shook his head, his lips wet and parted. “ _Good_ —well—I’m going to get you all wet right here.” He spread the lube over Quentin’s thighs, trailing his fingers over balls and cock until he was slick and shiny. “And you’re going to hold your legs together—I’ll help.” Quentin shivered and—this time, not complaining—pressed his legs back together. “And I’m gonna—” Eliot pushed in close to Quentin’s body, pressing his aching cock into the _hot-wet-tight_ space of his thighs, shifting so he could get one hand around Quentin’s cock and press it close to his body. “That feel good, baby?”

Quentin nodded, choking out a sob as Eliot pressed one hand to his hip and locked his other arm in place, fucking into him and thrilling at the rush of bliss, the tangled knots of want starting to unspool as he groaned, thrusting into the soft, hot space, against the faint soft-scratch of hair, the solid-sweet tenderness of Quentin’s trembling legs, the bounce of his ass. His nipples, sensitive and pebbled dragged against Quentin’s back, his body a loop of pleasure, arousal coursing through him, lighting up every nerve ending with heat and light, his brain blanking out and forcing away the darkness he felt in every corner of his life but this one. He pressed his lips, hot, against the back of Quentin’s neck, drinking in his scent, the salt of his sweat, his short, panting sighs, the whispered refrain of his name. “ _El_. Eliot.”

Sweat prickled over his brow, the back of his neck, pleasure rising through him in waves. He squeezed Quentin’s cock, drawing out a low moan and fucking into him harder, faster. “God, that’s so good—so good, baby—gonna— _come all over you_ —” Eliot’s hips stuttered, the tension rising in him— _God_ , he could feel it in his _teeth_ —the swirl of pleasure starting low in the cradle of his hips, his balls drawn up tight and full. Bliss, hot and sharp, unspooled in a rush, flooding every nerve ending as he thrust in even strokes. He folded forward, his entire being coiling tight and releasing in slow waves. His arms wrapped around Quentin as he thrust between those strong thighs a final time, his cock pulsing and spilling warmth over his hand, Quentin’s cock, his legs.

Eliot had had a lot of sex in his life—and it was always good. He _made_ it good. It was a skill he’d honed, a talent he could get awards for. He was controlled in what he gave, what he took. Always a carefully measured performance, nuanced to please each partner. With Quentin, sex was wholly different. This was a rushing sensation, crushing waves of want, unbridled need. The world was whittled down to a set of moments in time, everything else falling away.

He fell on the bed and pulled Quentin with him, turning him onto his back and pressing him down and kissing him until he was breathless, arching up and whimpering against Eliot’s mouth. Eliot wrapped his hand around Quentin’s dick, moving in firm, even strokes as he sucked at his tongue, dragged his teeth over his lips. His cock was aching hard, pulsing beneath Eliot’s touch, his body jumping and tensing with every movement. Everything was slippery with come and lube, filthy-slick sounds filling the room. Quentin’s body thrummed, hips bucking as he drew up tight and released, coming in hot spurts over his belly and chest. A ragged moan came from his chest, pouring out of him as his hips jerked up a final time, his eyes blinking rapidly, his breath coming in short rasps.

Quentin didn’t say anything—didn’t really try to—afterwards, while Eliot helped him clean up, tossing Quentin’s comforter in the hamper and retrieving another blanket from the hall closet. When they were both clean—or clean enough—Eliot settled back in bed next to Quentin, wrapping them both in the fuzzy blanket he’d found. Quentin nuzzled into his chest, one leg tucked between Eliot’s. He mumbled something into Eliot’s armpit. 

“Hm?” Eliot buried his fingers in Quentins hair because, listen, he was only human. And he planned to tuck his hand _right here_ as much as Quentin would let him.

“What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” Quentin said, a little less muffled. 

“Oh. I usually hang out with Margo but she’s going home with Fen.”

“And Kady’s going home with Jules.”

“Yeah. I’ll just be looking over the plays for next semester, finishing up some work.” He kneaded his fingers against Quentin’s scalp, pressing a kiss to his temple. 

“You should. Um.” Quentin turned his head, pressing his cheek against Eliot’s chest. “You should come to Jersey with me. Then we can go to the thing. From there. If you want to—still do that.”

Eliot swallowed, cleared his throat. It wasn’t quite getting light outside, but there was a suggestion of it in the sky, a faint gray filtering in with the ambient yellow glow of the streetlights. “That’s a thing—you know I said I haven’t exactly been introduced to parents. I haven’t _gone home_ with anyone. I’ve spent every Thanksgiving since I turned eighteen in New York.”

“It’s fine if you—”

Eliot took Quentin’s hand, squeezing it, threading their fingers together. “I want to. I’m taking it you’ve mentioned me to your dad. We wouldn’t just be _hanging out_ as friends?”

He could feel Quentin rolling his eyes. “Yeah. I mentioned you. I said I was seeing someone. I said we were probably broken up.”

Eliot drew Quentin’s hand up and kissed it. “That’s all very nonspecific.”

“Yeah I mean. I didn’t know what we were, Eliot.” There was a slight edge to his voice. He sighed. “Look, my dad is very—he’s my dad. He’s easygoing—”

“Are you sure he’s related to you?”

“Fuck off.” Quentin huffed. “I’m saying he’s not going to care about particulars. Like when we started dating or—whatever. Like I said, he’ll just be glad you’re not Alice.”

“I definitely don’t _look_ like an Alice.”

“He’s just going to care that—I want you with me. And—I love you.”

“Yeah?” The whole of Eliot’s everything felt lighter, even though he was fairly certain he had just been talked into something—whether on purpose or otherwise. He wasn’t entirely sure if he cared.

“Yeah. I love you—and you’re right. It’s fast—maybe too fast. But like. I’ve been falling in love with you since I nearly ran into you in the coffee shop. And I was losing my mind because I had the impression that—well, I thought none of it was _real._ And you’re here telling me that it’s real—that’s what’s happening? Isn’t it?”

Eliot put a hand on Quentin’s hip and hitched him in closer. His chest felt dark and tight. He’d made it seem like it couldn’t be real because he’d thought it couldn’t be. “Yeah. That’s definitely—yeah. It’s real. It’s real, baby.”

“So you should come home with me. Spend the holiday with us.”

“And your dad isn’t going to be weird about the fact that I have a dick?”

“I mean, he’s not going to be very interested in your dick. I _hope_. That would be a—uh—weird holiday.” Quentin laughed. “It’s fine if you don’t want to. I just—wanted to tell you that I want you there.”

“I do want to. I really want to.” Eliot pressed his nose in close to Quentin’s hair. “We’ll do it.”

Eliot’s arm was falling asleep with Quentin’s head pressed right in the crook of his shoulder, nose against his chest. But he wasn’t planning on moving.


	20. 'Twas I won the wager

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot meets Ted. Things don't go as planned. There is sex aplenty.

~Quentin~

“You want to get on the uh—this exit, for the Turnpike.” Quentin put his feet up on the dash, and Eliot turned to glare at him. Or maybe he wasn’t glaring at him. He couldn’t tell through Eliot’s reflective Ray-Bans. Which he wore really well. _Really well_. “What?”

“For one,” Eliot started, “You have your shoes on the dash.”

“It’s Kady’s dash. I can take _off_ my shoes.”

“You’re the worst person.” Eliot grumbled and fiddled with his phone, changing the music from Robyn to more Robyn. 

“You shouldn’t mess with your phone—we’re driving—”

“ _I’m_ driving. And you’re backseat driving.”

“I’m in the passenger seat.” 

“But that’s _what it’s called_. What you’re doing. Backseat driving.” Eliot fiddled with his phone again, adjusting it and changing the music again. 

“You shouldn’t be doing that!”

“Look—that’s the second thing. We’re in gridlocked traffic. Because literally no one should ever go anywhere the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving.”

“I had to go to the poetry seminar. Turn in my shit.”

“Hmm, yeah,” Eliot said. He tapped his infuriatingly long fingers against the steering wheel. He was so _long_ everywhere, and Quentin—Quentin _loved him_. And he was _also_ the _worst person_. “You couldn’t have emailed.”

“Hey—” Quentin was about to say he’d missed classes when he broke down over Eliot, but Eliot kept hinting around it all week—almost but not quite mentioning Quentin’s week of hell—trying to apologize again without apologizing, trying to ask _again_ if Quentin’s dad was going to hate him. He was _insecure_. Eliot felt so fucking shitty. And he hated seeing Eliot feel shitty, even when he kind of _should_ still feel shitty. He needed to get the message—Quentin didn’t have anywhere else he’d rather be. No one else he’d rather be with. And he’d had a _long talk_ with Cynthia about how it was okay to be scared about some things, especially if those things seemed worth the risk. Quentin, of course, didn’t expand on the entire way Eliot had tried to buy their relationship. That was a massive misstep that a therapist might equate with insane emotional repression. She wouldn’t be _wrong_ , but Quentin was just not _going there_. Not yet. “It was a class requirement. I—um—changed some things. Wanted to be there to turn it in, see the professor.”

Eliot made a grumbling sound, inching the car forward toward the exit. “You said the poems—” He cleared his throat. 

“Yeah?”

“You wrote them about?”

“You.” Quentin looked out at the sea of cars. They were inching along. His foot tapped against the dash. “But I’m not showing them to you. Because—you know, at first I thought they were like, _amazing_. But they’re pretty shitty. I wrote them in a haze of like caffeine and Adderall after not _exactly_ sleeping well.”

“Q, I’m just so fucking sorry—”

“Stop,” Quentin said. “Stop it. They’re like—representative of that moment in my life. And I’ll pass the class. And I’m not looking at them again. I’m not going back there. And I—I don’t know if I _should_ —trust you. But I do.”

“You probably shouldn’t.” Low, melancholy.

“But I do. You told me I can, so I’m going with that. I want to.” Quentin sighed. “We’re fucked up. We both had fucked up relationships. And—so we fucked up.”

“I fucked up.”

“Yeah and I did, too. I had a hard time trusting my feelings—”

“No, Q—” Eliot got off on the exit and dangerously sped past a silver Audi. 

“Hey, listen—like. I didn’t feel like I could be with anyone. I pushed back at you, and I didn’t tell you what I—that I wanted you. I didn’t—I _don’t_ know how to be with anyone who really wants me. I couldn’t trust it.”

Eliot was quiet, driving along now at a steadier clip, glancing at his phone occasionally to see where they were. Quentin bit the inside of his cheek to keep from spewing a bunch of nervous garbage while Eliot sorted through the vast well of insecurity that he kept well hidden beneath the layers of Eliot-ness he kept on the outside. Quentin hadn’t realized just _how much_ he kept hidden. There wasn’t one moment he realized it—it was more of a collection of moments, one piece revealed at a time, until the picture started coming into focus. The whole image of Eliot, Quentin had realized, was never quite clear. He was always shifting it, lifting different pieces of himself up, covering others. In the past few days, Quentin had seen more of Eliot than he had in all the months of knowing him. He saw it as—and maybe this was naive—a leap of faith on Eliot’s part. The letting down of gates at the castle entrance, the removal of outward armor. They’d made that possible for each other, and maybe that was the key. Maybe it always had been. 

“Quentin—” Eliot started. 

“El, I know this is new for you. This is new for me, too. We’ll be—it’s going to be. We’ll be fine.”

Eliot tapped at the steering wheel, holding his whole body straight and tense. ‘All My Life’ by K-Ci & JoJo had come on his playlist—fucking corny. But. Cute. “And your dad is _fine_ with everything?”

“He knows the—bare minimum. He’s just excited to cook for more than one person. Badly. Always badly.”

Eliot smiled at that. “I haven’t had a real Thanksgiving since high school. And it—my holidays were never what one would call _pleasant_.”

Quentin wanted to crawl onto Eliot’s lap and kiss him until he was breathless, until he forgot all the bad things, all the guilt he kept carrying around, the memories that hurt so much. “This’ll be—boring. But pleasant. Always the same. He always fucks up the turkey. And we have mashed potatoes.” Quentin paused. “He set up the guest room for us.”

Eliot let out a sharp breath, something akin to a laugh. “God. Okay.”

“Turn up here—see the sign for Plum Grove Road—”

“Okay—okay,” Eliot said. Quentin wasn’t sure if he even knew he’d said anything. When they pulled up by the driveway, Quentin grabbed Eliot’s hand and squeezed.

***

Eliot had a smile plastered on his mouth the moment he walked into Ted Coldwater’s house—a Cape Cod built in the 1980s that Quentin had lived in from the day he’d been born until he went to Columbia in 2010. Quentin’s dad had an equally fucking weird smile on his face, but it was likely because he was reading Eliot’s whole terrible vibe, and not because of any of the one million reasons Eliot had in his mind. Quentin half-disassociated when Eliot shook Ted’s hand, and Ted launched into a whole explanation about the kitchen renovation and started giving Eliot a very stilted ‘tour’ through their very average house.

“... And this is Caitlin,” his dad said, bringing Quentin back to reality. He was gesturing to the red and blue plaid sofa that had sat in the middle of their living room for the past fifteen years. 

Quentin groaned. “Dad.”

“What’s Caitlin?” Eliot was still smiling that really weird smile, holding his hands clasped in front of him like he was in line for communion at church. Not that Quentin ever really went to church, but he’d gone with Julia a few times, and that was the _whole vibe_ Eliot was giving off. Like he might have to confess his homosexual fantasies to a priest. 

“The cat,” his dad said, like _Duh, obviously, that’s my cat named Caitlin that you can’t see_.

“She doesn’t come out for guests. Like she probably won’t make an appearance. So it’s not really relevant that we have a cat?” Quentin put his hand to the back of Eliot’s arm, which made Eliot _startle_. “I mean—you’re not allergic to cats, are you?”

“No,” Eliot said absently, looking around—maybe for the cat. “We had barn cats. I kept one in my room the summer I was thirteen. No, um. Allergies.” Eliot’s eyes were distant, and he looked a little queasy, like he hadn’t _intended_ to actually divulge anything about where he came from, certainly not in front of Ted Coldwater. 

“You didn’t know if your boyfriend was allergic to cats?” Ted smiled and patted Quentin a little awkwardly on the shoulder. “I mean—if ‘boyfriend’ is the right word. I don’t know if you’re just ‘hooking up’ or ‘talking.’ That’s what your aunt told me. That your cousin was ‘talking to’ a boy in her dorm at Cornell.”

Eliot swallowed audibly. Quentin took Eliot’s hand in his, trying to ignore most of what his dad had just said, not only because it was _mortifying_ , but also because it was still a sore point. “He’s my boyfriend.”

The hard smile on Eliot’s face softened a little, and he looked at Quentin gratefully, a quick little glance. “Yeah. He is. We are.” His words were a little stilted, like he was forcing them out.

“Well, boys, you two have the guest room—I have it all made up for you. I’ll be up early to get the smoker ready, but you two can sleep in.”

“The _smoker_?” Eliot raised an eyebrow.

“Birthday present for myself. Haven’t smoked a turkey before. It’s an experiment. If it doesn’t work out—Maryann is bringing a ham.”

“Who’s _Maryann_?”

“Well, I’ve mentioned her _several times_ , Curly Q.”

Eliot took in a quick breath, and Quentin knew he was trying not to laugh. Quentin thought he should have been rewarded for not pinching him right then. And he had no idea who the _fuck_ Maryann was. Probably because he was a selfish dick who’d turned off his phone when he broke up with his not-boyfriend.

“Oh—I’m not sure—I _remember_ you mentioning her, Dad. Especially not when we talked earlier this week.”

“Well, I didn’t know you were bringing Eliot until Monday morning, bud.” There was no ire in his father’s voice, so he couldn’t exactly be irritated, could he? He just hadn’t seen his father date _anyone_ in years. 

“That’s—fine. It’s cool,” Quentin said, clearing his throat. “Eliot made a pie.”

“Two pies. A cranberry apple pie with brown sugar and cinnamon and a pumpkin maple pie with graham cracker crust.”

“That sounds incredible, Eliot—have you two eaten?” 

“We got salads before we left,” Eliot said. 

“Yeah, I think we’re going to turn in,” Quentin said with a yawn. He wasn’t _really_ tired, but he needed to get away from the whole Ted-and-Eliot situation, and the entire concept of Maryann.

“Long day,” Eliot added. He jerkily tossed Quentin’s bag over his shoulder.

“Oh—of course,” Ted said. “I’ll just be in the kitchen, working on a few things for tomorrow. Double the number of people we normally have for Thanksgiving. I think we’ve got some potatoes somewhere.”

“I’m glad to be here, Mr. Coldwater,” Eliot said stiffly. “Thank you so much—we’ll—we’ll see you in the morning.”

“Ted. Call me Ted. I’m so glad you’re here, Eliot. Curly Q hasn’t had many successful relationships—”

“Jesus, Dad. I mean. Okay, we’re going to bed. Good night!”

Eliot let Quentin guide him up the stairs to the guest room, the bed made up with a soft, old patchwork quilt that had lived for years in Quentin’s room. Now it was the guest quilt, he supposed—or maybe Ted believed that Eliot would be coming around again, so he’d assigned it to the room with the queen bed and attached bathroom. Quentin turned that over in his mind as he pulled out the old suitcase rack and took his bag from Eliot. There was a scratching right at the door, and Eliot opened it a little ways. The great disappearing Caitlin had made an appearance, apparently venturing out for _this_ guest. 

“Well hey there,” Eliot said in a voice Quentin had never heard him use—soft and beckoning. The little Calico—three years old now, maybe—cautiously stepped up to Eliot and pressed her head to his knee, mewing mildly as if in greeting.

“You must be special,” Quentin said.

“I don’t know. She was just curious.” He stroked Caitlin’s head, and she butted at his knee again before prancing off and skittering down the stairs.

“I dunno. She doesn’t really come out for anyone but my dad.”

“What can I say?” Eliot gave him a minor smirk—not quite a full one; he was still off kilter from… _everything_. “I have a way with timid little kittens.”

“Not your best work. Try again.” Quentin crossed his arms.  
Eliot cleared his throat, smiling a sheepish little smile. “Nice guest room,” Eliot said, closing the door behind him. He hugged Quentin from behind, lifting his shirt and pressing his hands to his belly. “Are there any other kittens who want to come out to--”

“Nope,” Quentin said. “That is not _it_.” Quentin grumbled as Eliot turned him and took him into his arms, but Eliot’s mouth was on his before he could actually complain. Despite the grave sin of Eliot being a _total dork_ , Quentin opened to him automatically, their lips slotting together like pieces of a puzzle. A spark of heat came to life inside him as Eliot licked into his mouth, a wanting little flame that he’d never felt—ever—with anyone else. 

“What’s that for?” he asked, panting, well on his way to breathless. 

“Being adorable,” Eliot said, rubbing his nose against Quentin’s, “Curly Q.”

“Oh my _God_. Please forget that. Like, wipe it from your memory entirely. Never mention it again.”

“Not a chance. It’s been said, and it can’t be unsaid. And it suits you, my sweet little thing.”

“I hate you.”

“I’ll make you not hate me. I swear.” He nipped at Quentin’s jaw, sending a thrill down the back of his neck.

“Oh yeah?”

“I’ve got a few plans for you—” He cupped Quentin’s ass through his jeans. “—and I intend to see them through.”

“El,” Quentin whispered. “The kitchen is right downstairs. My dad will be up until at least midnight. That’s three hours—”

“Gosh—then we’ll have to be _quiet_ ,” Eliot whispered, “so no one hears us. I know you like to be loud, baby. But we can do it if we really try. Wouldn’t want your dad knowing what we’re up to.” He reached between Quentin’s legs, cupping his cock. 

“Holy _fuck_.” This shouldn’t have been doing it for Quentin as much as it was. And it was doing a _lot_ , pinging around in Quentin’s brain. His breathing started to come a little faster, and he tugged at Eliot’s collar, making a helpless little sound. 

“Where are you thinking baby?” Eliot kissed the space just behind Quentin’s ear. His voice was rumbling and low; the sound, whisper-close, sent vibrations of pleasure over his scalp.

“I was—this is dumb.” Quentin buried his head against Eliot’s shoulder, breathing in the herb-and-citrus scent of his cologne and the body wash he used. 

“No, it’s not, sweetheart.” The tentative, nervous behavior was gone, replaced with this wolffish version of Eliot that appeared when Eliot started poking at Quentin, pushing him where he wanted. Yeah, it was a distraction from the insecurities Eliot had been carrying around. They both knew it. And yet.

“I was thinking,” Quentin said, low, “that if you were my boyfriend in high school, we’d sneak up to the guest room. We’d have to be—you know—”

“Quiet,” Eliot said.

“I didn’t really have anyone in high school. I didn’t, you know, like. Date anyone until college.”

Eliot grinned and put one finger beneath Quentin’s chin. “Wouldn’t want anyone to know what we were up to,” he said, crowding Quentin back against the door. Eliot tilted his head and put one hand on the back of Quentin’s neck, kissing him slow and languid, drawing out little sighs and swallowing them down. When Eliot ran his fingers down the line of his stiffening cock, Quentin moaned, and Eliot put a hand over his mouth.

“Shh, baby. Don’t want anyone to hear you.”

Quentin nodded, a little frantically, his toes curling in his chucks. He squeaked when Eliot gripped his hips tight and started kissing him again. Eliot just made him feel like putty, warm and spread open, even after his dad’s _this-is-the-invisible-cat_ and _also-I-have-a-girlfriend_ weirdness. Quentin’s nagging worries just—slipped out of his head when Eliot did this, set up a whole _thing_ for Quentin’s brain to focus on.

If they were in high school, fooling around upstairs when they were supposed to be... studying, or maybe Eliot was over to practice his lines for a play. And maybe he’d want Quentin to suck his dick while he pulled his hair. Or maybe they’d jerk each other off under the covers, kissing furtively and biting down on their sex noises when they came over each other’s hands. Or _maybe_ he’d want to—he’d _need_ to—use Quentin’s body, fuck him for the first time.

The _is he going to fuck me?_ question popped up in his mind, a zing of need shooting through his cock. He hadn’t been fucked—you know, with a _live dick_ —for like, three years. And he _really fucking loved_ taking it and he could be so _good_ for Eliot, give him what he _needed_. He realized—embarrassingly—he was whimpering against Eliot’s lips, fumbling with his belt and attempting to palm his cock at the same time—and Jesus, Quentin was _hard_. Eliot’s dick was _so big_ , so nice and thick—he wanted it fucking _impaling_ him. He mouthed at Eliot’s neck, desperate to envelop him like a fucking _kraken_. Yeah that was—that was _so good_. He could be quiet and behaved while Eliot was fucking him, think about being _young_ and even less experienced, letting Eliot teach him—

“I have an idea,” Eliot said, voice soft, peeling Quentin’s shirt off and putting his huge hands over the span of Quentin’s waist. Jesus, those long fingers, broad palms, _covering him_. The coil of wanting, ever present, drew up tight in his center, a stringed instrument of need, ready for plucking. Jesus, even his brain was mixing metaphors. 

“Anything—”

“I think—” He licked at the seam of Quentin’s lips, pressed kisses down the line of his jaw, his voice the barest whisper. “—you should fuck me.”

Quentin knit his brows, his brain refusing to really _process_ what Eliot was saying. “What?” 

Quentin was—well, he just didn’t like being in charge of making decisions. He’d never _asked_ to fuck his ex-whatever, boyfriend type of person. He just thought about it. You know, with his hand on his dick. He’d figured if Matteo didn’t ask, they didn’t need to do it.

With the thing that was Quentin-and-Eliot, Eliot was the one who made decisions, the one who set up the whole atmosphere of whatever sex thing they were doing. Quentin liked having a set of instructions to follow, a roadmap someone else made, with rest stops and tourist attractions along the way. That’s the thing Eliot was good at. Not Quentin. This was like being handed a marker and a piece of paper and having someone say, “Go to it.” He would have to analyze, like, the gender essentialism of this _whatever_ —whole thing—because he hadn’t felt _quite_ like that with Alice or any of the other women he’d been with. His brain was spinning too fast and his dick was way too hard to parse that information presently.

“I want you—” He sucked Quentin’s ear lobe between his teeth, nibbling at it and sending a wild shiver down the back of his neck. Quentin’s dick twitched, entirely without his permission. “—to fuck me.”

“Uh.” Quentin gulped like a fucking cartoon character. “We were just downstairs with my dad—and he’s in the kitchen fucking—brining a turkey. That he’s going to put in the smoker while we wait for his _girlfriend_.”

“Exactly,” Eliot said, pushing him back toward the bed. He was still _whispering_ , and oh _God_ , why was that so hot? “We were being quiet. Upstairs being good boys. No one knows.” He walked his fingers along Quentin’s arm, hair rising behind them.

“Wait—I—haven’t exactly. You know.” Quentin’s cheeks were extremely hot. “With—you know.”

Eliot smiled, all sweetness and indulgence. Quentin’s stomach flipped over. The insides of his body were on the outside, and what the fuck had he been saying?

“I know. Be quiet, remember. You’re getting a little loud.” Eliot grasped his shoulders and sat him down on the bed, tilting Quentin’s head up and pushing his hair back from his face, fingernails dragging gently over his scalp. His cock was fully fucking hard, at attention, pressed against the soft interior of his boxers and straining hard against his jeans, pulsing and _needing_.

“What if I’m—” Quentin said, his voice hushed now, echoing Eliot’s instructions. “I wanna make it good for you—I don’t know—if that’s—if I can do that for you. Do what you want.”

Eliot brushed his thumb along the bow of his lip, leaning in and pressing his lips right to Quentin’s ear. “You’re gonna do what I want because I’m going to tell you what I want, baby.”

His body pulsed with soft heat. “Okay. Okay—I can do that.”

“Very good. Now you just get naked, lie back, okay?”

“Um. Yeah. Uh—Eliot?”

Eliot was already searching through his bag, which was packed for both his dad’s place _and_ the bed and breakfast, so it was likely packed with a variety of inappropriate things. Quentin’s head swam as Eliot pulled out a container of lube—all business right now, absolutely in his element with the door closed on the reality of Thanksgiving. “Hm?”

Eliot was pulling out his red silk robe with the yellow flowers on it, and Quentin’s brain blanked out entirely. “I don’t—I don’t know.”

“Okay, pretty baby,” Eliot said absently, fucking humming to himself. “I’ll be just a sec. Get ready for me.”

Quentin fell back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling for—he didn’t know how long—head swimming, wondering if his mind was functioning properly or if he’d left it back at the apartment, or sitting under the sofa with Caitlin. After a moment, he remembered to shimmy out of his jeans. He hadn’t decided whether or not to take off his boxer briefs when Eliot strolled back in, wearing only his robe.

“Hey, El,” he said softly, lifting himself up on his elbows. His body was an exposed wire, raw, jumping on asphalt. He wanted Eliot—God, he wanted _everything_ when he saw Eliot, when he thought of him. He was impossibly beautiful—like a god or a _king_. He’d just fucking given his curls a tousle—extra messy over his forehead, arranged _just so_ above the nape of his neck. His cheeks were all rosy, his smile _pleased_ , bare legs a mile and a half long. 

“Check in, baby. You wanna do this? It’s fine if you don’t. I have _plenty_ of other ideas.” 

Quentin swallowed hard. “I want to do this. I want you.”

“Good. You trust me?”

Quentin nodded. “Yeah.”

Eliot slid onto the bed, pushing Quentin down gently and tugging him close. Whenever Eliot kissed him, it was like the world shattered into pieces around him, time and space breaking. He let out a startled little _nyuh_ sound as Eliot hiked down his boxer briefs and threw them down, bare skin against bare skin, Eliot’s robe untied and falling off of his shoulders. He rolled back on the bed and pulled Quentin on top of him, pressing his nose to Quentin’s cheek and kissing him once, soft. “It’s gonna _feel good_ ,” he breathed. “Been thinking about you inside me all day. But don’t worry, baby—I’ll tell you exactly what to do.” 

Quentin’s entire mind split in half. “Y-yeah?” He realized he was on top of Eliot, his whole body weirdly stiff and—he shifted— _yeah_ , he was definitely still hard. Like, really, a lot. 

“Yeah. C’mon, get between my legs.” Eliot was still _whispering_ , which was getting _exponentially_ fucking hotter. His dad was still banging around in the kitchen, and he was leaning in to kiss Eliot again because he was so fucking stunning, all laid out on the bed. Something out of his adolescent wet-dream tall-guy fantasies, his robe splayed out beneath him, hiked up around his hips. 

When Quentin sat back on his haunches, he pulled Eliot’s legs tight around him, running his hands up long, pale thighs. His cock was half hard, resting against his thigh, dark hair all neatly trimmed, which made him look unfairly massive and gorgeous. “What should I—um.” Quentin’s cheeks were hot, sweat gathering at his brow, even though it was historically chilly in the Coldwater household.

“Get me nice and hard.” Eliot pressed his fingers to Quentin’s bottom lip. Quentin opened his mouth reflexively, sucking at Eliot’s fingertips. “God—you’re—very distracting. Go on—get that mouth on my cock.”

Quentin quirked his eyebrows together, letting out a little sigh, sounding almost _relieved_. This was a thing he knew how to do. He sighed contentedly when he got Eliot’s cock in his mouth—he loved the heat of it against his tongue, the stretch of his lips, the sensation of it fattening up in his mouth. When Eliot gasped and gripped Quentin’s hand, he hummed happily, taking Eliot close to the back of his throat, relishing the heady little sting, the feeling of _fullness_ , hollowing his cheeks and sucking until he felt blissed out on it. He let himself get lost in it—a salty hint of precome hitting his tongue, the muscles in Eliot’s legs jumping, his breath coming faster as Quentin sucked.

“Oh fuck, Q,” he murmured, brushing his hair back so he could look in Quentin’s eyes, so he could watch him as he licked over the head and stroked the shaft in his hand. “You better—you better get me ready or I’m just gonna come in that gorgeous mouth. Come on, sweetheart.”

Eliot’s dick popped out of his mouth, wet with spit and flushed red. Quentin spit in his hand and wrapped his fingers around Eliot’s cock, stroking him a few times just to hear the slick sound. “I always want you to come in my mouth,” Quentin said, breathless. There was a little whine in his voice, but he didn’t particularly _care_.

“Remember, we need to be quiet,” Eliot chastised, panting between words. “Now, baby, you need to get me open and fuck me before I throw you on the bed and fuck your face, okay?”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Quentin said, grabbing for the lube and nearly dropping it. When he lunged to catch it, Eliot grabbed his ass and smacked it. 

“That’s for being too loud,” he growled. 

“I said don’t threaten me—” Quentin kissed him, licking into his mouth, his cock dragging against Eliot’s stomach, his breath hitching when it nestled in against Eliot’s. “—with a good time.”

Eliot chuckled, breath hot against Quentin’s cheek. “I’m serious, though. You need to finger me open and fuck me.”

“Why’s that?” Quentin poured a little pool of lube into his hand, coating his fingers and pressing two of them against Eliot’s hole, nearly moaning when Eliot spread his legs further apart and sighed. He’d done this for Eliot before; he knew this part, too. He might not be an _expert_ , but Eliot wasn’t complaining.

“Because,” Eliot whispered. “I said.”

Quentin smiled. “I can do that.” He slowly pressed one finger inside, licking his lips as Eliot’s cock jerked. Watching his fingers disappear inside of Eliot was insanely erotic, sending arousal pouring through him, fiery swirls through the cradle of his hips. He was tight and smooth inside, and yeah, okay, Quentin could slip inside and he could _have this_.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “That feels so fucking good, baby. You—you’re doing so good. You can put another—yeah, put another finger inside.” 

By the time he’d worked three fingers inside of him, the muscles of Eliot’s abdomen were jumping rhythmically, his nipples tight and hard and tempting, his cock wet at the tip. And Quentin—god, he didn’t know if he’d _ever_ been this turned on, body thrumming-hot with need. Something clicked in him as he finger fucked Eliot, as he watched Eliot’s half-blissed out, half-agonized expression. He was so hard, so _desperate_ to fuck, he wanted it _so bad_. He didn’t think he’d _ever_ wanted anyone this much.

“I’m ready, my love,” Eliot said, gripping the bedclothes and bucking up as Quentin’s fingers glided over his prostate. “Need you.”

 _My love_.

“Yeah?” Quentin let out a long, satisfied sigh, pulling away his fingers and lining himself up at Eliot’s entrance. He dripped more lube over his cock. “God I’m—I want you so bad.”

“Then have me. Come on. Need you. Just be quiet when you get inside me.” His words were a breathy rush, a sigh escaping as Quentin nudged against Eliot’s hole.

Quentin pressed forward, heart slow at first but then speeding up as he met resistance, the tight force of muscle, pushing back against him and finally giving way. He bit down on his lip to keep from crying out as the head of his cock slipped inside. 

“Oh, my _God_.” Quentin slid forward, Eliot’s body enveloping him, clasping him in and pulling him forward until he’d bottomed out, the base of his cock flush with Eliot’s hips. Every nerve ending lit up, centering on the silken heat, pleasure and longing and love spiraling out from his center, radiating through him in endless loops of Eliot’s skin and Eliot’s sharp-dark scent and the taste and texture of Eliot’s tongue, Eliot’s hips angled to hold him closer, no space left between them. 

Beneath him, Eliot lay spread open and panting, his pale chest pink beneath his dark hair, nipples hard, his breath coming in short, open gasps. His cock was stiff and leaking against his belly. “Hey, baby,” Eliot whispered, drawing Quentin into his arms and wrapping him up in his long legs. “You feel good.” He kissed Quentin’s jaw, his lower lip, his earlobe. “Perfect for me. Gonna come on your cock.”

A little broken sound came from deep inside Quentin, and he pressed his open-hot face to Eliot’s neck, hips tense and thighs shivering. He licked at the sweat pooling at the crook of Eliot’s neck. “God, you’re—so—I’m—” He sobbed, and Eliot shushed him, petting through his hair, his legs held lightly against Quentin’s sides.

“You can move now, sweetheart,” Eliot breathed, drawing Quentin’s lips to his for a wet, open kiss.

Quentin nodded, heat prickling at his hairline, beads of sweat forming along his brow as he shifted onto his knees to gain a little purchase. Eliot’s heartbeat thudded against him, reverberating inside of him, present in the tight-wet heat, pulsing in time with his own desire. He hitched his hips back the barest bit and pushed back inside, shuddering and biting down on a moan. He felt stupidly like he didn’t know where to put his hands, settling one on Eliot’s waist so he could feel the muscles contract beneath his fingers, one next to his head, just barely brushing against his curls. Eliot turned and kissed his wrist. His eyes were half-hooded when Quentin looked at him, his cheeks flushed deep pink. On the first real thrust, Quentin’s mind nearly whited out, sparkles at the edges of his vision—it was tight, so tight—when he went to say something, he found the words had fallen out of his mind, replaced with a cresting, moving sea of pleasure. 

“Right there, baby,” Eliot murmured, nipping at his earlobe. He had one arm thrown around Quentin’s neck, fingers tangled up in his hair. Eliot had retained his ability to speak, his voice a port in the storm of Quentin’s consciousness, telling him how good he was, how amazing he felt as he moved inside, speeding and slowing in accordance with Eliot’s requests. Eliot’s other hand went to his cock, stroking lazily as Quentin fucked into him. “You make me feel so fucking good, baby—I’m so close— _right there_ —”

He felt Eliot clenching against him, the drag and release growing more intense with each thrust, pulling Quentin’s arousal tighter and tighter until it was almost too much. Quentin let out a choked sob—too loud—he didn’t _care_ —not meaning to move faster but unable to hold back, his fingers digging into Eliot’s hip now, leaving crescent marks in his skin. He’d never—he thought, his body moving in harmony with Eliot’s, their bodies slippery with sweat—never wanted someone the way he wanted Eliot. He was gone from the beginning, the moment they’d met. He hadn’t stood a chance. 

Eliot’s hand worked with practiced efficiency, his breath coming in quick bursts, his hips canted up to catch Quentin’s thrusts. “Fuck, Q, _baby_ —” His body seized up around Quentin’s cock, heels pressed into the backs of Quentin’s thighs, his body shaking as he came, warmth spilling between them. Eliot’s body _clung_ to his, fingers clasped against the nape of his neck, and Quentin sobbed silently against him, biting Eliot’s shoulder as he sped up, driving into him harder and chasing his own pleasure. His balls drew up tight against his body, bright tendrils of pleasure spreading through him like morning sun over water, overtaking him all at once as he buried himself deep, coming so hard that his bliss was tinged with an almost painful brutality.

They came back to themselves by degrees, both panting and dappled with sweat. Quentin was aware of Eliot’s fingertips petting through his hair, Eliot’s lips pressed to the stubble on his cheek. He buried his head against Eliot’s neck, taking in the clean, sea-salt smell of his sweat, mingled with his vaguely tropical curl cream. “It hurts how much—how much.” He pressed his chin into the meat of Eliot’s shoulder. “How much I love you.”

Eliot’s fingers tightened in his hair. “I know. I didn’t want to fall in love with anyone again—not for a long time. Not at all, maybe.” His words were soft and still, calm and steady in the close, sweet touch of their bodies.

“I know.” Quentin shifted, moving to Eliot’s side. He wondered where this feeling came from—the whole sense of being like a raw nerve, an open wound. How did this like, benefit the human race, biologically speaking? Something to do with making families, maybe; creatures were, perhaps, loyal in proportion to how vulnerable they felt with their partners. Made stronger by not needing to _pretend_ to be strong; a kind of paradox. Sex was just one of those ways people achieved this kind of space with the people they loved. There were a million ways, and Eliot kept breaking him open, new fissures in places he thought were long since closed. He traced his fingers down over the line of Eliot’s broad shoulder. He loved this shoulder, the way it swooped, how it joined the impossibly long line of Eliot’s neck, the graceful expanse of his arm, how the muscles moved beneath his skin when he was close to Quentin like this. 

“I’m not going to—”

“Eliot.” Quentin sighed, closed his eyes. His heart—or you know, the set of human emotions that like, corresponded to a ‘heart’—couldn’t take it. It pained him.

“No, Q—I’m not going to hurt you. I want to promise—”

“El.” He ran his finger back up the line of Eliot’s neck, nesting his hand in soft dark curls. “People hurt each other. That’s how relationships work. We just have to show up for the other parts. Make sure we... keep doing the thing. Talking and you know, the hard stuff.” 

“Yeah. I’m going to... try. I don’t do well with that.”

“You’re doing okay,” Quentin said. His body was still tingling with the afterglow, his hot skin pressed against Eliot’s, covered in sweat and come and lube—and they really should probably take a shower at the very least. Maybe change the sheets. “You’re talking to me now.”

“It’s easy when we’re like this.”

“Yeah. Well. It won’t always be this way. And that’s okay. We can do hard things.” 

“You think?” Eliot’s voice hitched when he spoke, raw emotion filtering through. Quentin, in that moment, just wanted to wrap him up and protect him, keep him from all the things that felt too heavy and too real, too difficult. 

“Yeah, I think so. Let’s go to sleep, like we said we were going to. Like actually be quiet. Shower first.”

Eliot nodded against him, strangely tender. He let Quentin pull him up to the bathroom, turn on the water, heat them both up and wash them down. They fell into kissing each other again, pressed tight together, all lovely soft skin. Laughing a little, dressed in his very over the top silk sleep pants that matched his robe, he helped Quentin change the bottom sheet, crawling in next to him and wrapping him up, warm and clean.

“That was good, baby.” 

Quentin nodded. “Yeah. It was.” He cleared his throat. His cheeks were red again, and he’d just _fucked Eliot_. “I didn’t think. I mean. I thought you—”

“I prefer topping, baby, but I’m versatile.” Eliot smiled against his face, planting a kiss just beneath his cheekbone. “And you were fantastically fucking hot. I wanted you, and I asked for what I wanted. You liked it?”

“Uh. _Yes_. In case you couldn’t tell.” 

“It’s all just— _words_ ,” Eliot said. “I have no problem with anyone labeling themselves. Sometimes there’s a lot of power and positivity in picking something for yourself. But you don’t have to choose one thing or the other if that doesn’t feel right to you.”

“I enjoyed your presentation—”

“Oh my God.” Eliot pinned him to the bed and nibbled at his neck, sending a new wave of sparks down his spine.

“—and I’d like to subscribe to your newsletter.”

Eliot started sucking at Quentin’s neck, mumbling something against his skin. 

“Don’t give me a hickey. I’m supposed to meet _Maryann_ tomorrow.” 

Eliot laughed and drew him in close. He pressed his nose against Eliot’s wet curls. He hadn’t let Quentin see him like this before, he realized—unkempt and unstyled. Even in the mornings when they’d woken up together, Eliot had mostly managed to tame his hair before Quentin was fully conscious. The time they’d accidentally fallen in bed at Eliot’s place, his hair had defied the actual laws of physics and maintained the practiced messiness from the night before. But here, Eliot was tired and heavy-limbed, cracked open, revealing the pulsing glow of his heart and the bare pieces of his soul, a clearer picture than he’d before ever let Quentin see. This was a privilege; only a very few people had seen Eliot at his most vulnerable. And here at Quentin’s childhood home, he’d _chosen_ to seek solace in Quentin, reveal the tenderest parts of himself. Instead of shutting himself off, he’d let go, intertwining their limbs and lives, making room for Quentin.

They fell asleep like that, tangled up in each other. When they woke up, it was a new day.

***

Ted Coldwater was not a shining beacon of charisma. Like, obviously. He was, you know, slightly less awkward than Quentin, but that was mostly force of habit. He’d _taught_ himself not to be a twitchy, nervous weirdo over the past several decades, but it definitely came out around Eliot. And Eliot, through some odd desire to seem knowledgeable or masculine or _something_ , was helping his dad set up the smoker—which it appeared Eliot knew far more about than his dad did. Quentin was… not shock. His dad was a disaster when it came to cooking, but he’d always _tried_. You’d think after nearly two decades as a single dad, he’d have learned to cook _something_ successfully. He hadn’t. And Thanksgiving was always his tour de force, pinnacle-of-the-year cooking disaster. This was a special kind of hell, watching his boyfriend instruct his dad on the proper amount of cherry wood to add to bring out a nice smoky flavor. It was all sort of a Thanksgiving themed shitshow, and Maryann was supposed to show up in two hours. 

Eliot, being Eliot, was hiding his nervousness under layers of weirdly formal politeness that hid any and all of his actual charm, mixing it all up and just making him seem _weird_. He also came off as slightly _sarcastic_ , which he did a lot of the time anyway, but today, it was a grating, awful thing. Not cute like it usually was. For his part, Ted Coldwater was doing his best not to lose his actual fucking mind with the smoker—which he kept _claiming_ he’d used before. It was eight in the morning and it was _cold_ —the grass was frozen over with a light sheet of ice—and Quentin was fiddling with their fire pit, making a cone of twigs and a pile of kindling beneath it, per Junior Cowboy Camp instructions. The day was almost too damp to light any kind of a fire. The lighter he was using kept sparking and dimming out in the light wind. 

“The bottom vents need to be approximately a quarter of the way open,” Eliot said, fiddling with the behemoth of a smoker. He already had soot on his hands from whatever ludicrous thing his dad had been cooking recently.

“You sure you know what you’re talking about, son?” Ted clapped Eliot on the back.

“I grew up smoking turkeys on the farm every holiday. The kids got to pick the turkey, and I was the youngest, so I really ended up picking a _lot_ of turkeys by the time I moved out at seventeen.”

“Like, at the store?” 

“Oh. Uh—no, not at the store. We raised turkeys.” Eliot was a horrible shade of gray. Quentin was about 100% sure Eliot hadn’t meant to make any farm confessions at his first Coldwater Thanksgiving. “On the farm where I grew up,” he added, because apparently he couldn’t stop spewing his personal childhood trauma.

Quentin cringed. His dad looked at Eliot like he was growing a horn out of the top of his head, which made Eliot plaster on that weird, fucking fake smile again. “The um—” Quentin yelled to Eliot, not really knowing what he was going to say. “Fire?”

Eliot gave him a pleading look, all huge green eyes and long eyelashes. He was wearing an adorable navy blue sweater over a burgundy and gold paisley tie that he’d gotten from his maybe-thief Nordstrom friend at the last minute. He was wearing all of it with plum-colored trousers because Eliot couldn’t resist something just the slightest bit out of line. He looked like figure from a Norman Rockwell painting from the waist up—and a figure from a gay Norman Rockwell painting from the waist down. Quentin wanted to grab him and shove him back upstairs so he could bury his face in his chest hair and lick his nipples for the rest of the day. So _what_ if this was an absolutely inappropriate thought to have on Thanksgiving morning after giving Eliot the world’s lengthiest blowjob right after they woke up. Fucking sue him, Jesus. _Look at him_.

“Oh—um. Eliot—if you could help me with the fire, that would be _great_. And I’m pretty sure you could break your sobriety and make a Bloody Mary for me. Right?”

Relief flooded Eliot’s face, and he closed the space between them, looking back with an agonized expression at his dad fiddling with the smoker. “We’re probably going to be having Maryann’s ham. He should have started that two hours ago.”

Quentin’s heart double-thumped, and he grabbed Eliot’s hand, bringing it to his mouth and kissing over each knuckle. “It’ll be fine either way.”

A corner of Eliot’s lips quirked up. “Very chill of you, Coldwater.” 

“I mean.” He tried the lighter again, blowing gently on the pile of sticks, his body held at a totally awkward angle, his arm scraping against the cold stone edge of the fire pit. “Like. It’s a turkey. And my dad always fucks up the turkey. This will just be a new way to fuck it up.”

“You are a veritable fount of wisdom.” He knelt down next to Quentin and took the lighter from him, reaching into the fire pit with his much longer arms, the flame sparking and catching on the sticks on his first try.

“How are you so _good_ at just—things? Everything?”

“Magic,” Eliot replied.

Quentin nuzzled at his cheek and kissed him there, making Eliot go absolutely _still_. Ted was fighting with the smoker ten feet away, loading it with briquettes and a bag of cherry wood that he said would lend a ‘rustic flavor’ to the bird. “Hey, you don’t have to be—anything—to impress my dad, El. Or like. You can let me kiss you. Okay?”

Eliot cut his eyes at Quentin, like he didn’t think he could quite believe it. “Okay.” He sighed. “This is all... new.” He pulled Quentin up with him. “So I’m going to take you up on that Bloody Mary. And then we can burn shit while your dad fucks up the turkey.”

“Honestly,” Quentin said, “solid plan. Cheese and crackers for breakfast?” 

“Yeah. I can support that.” Eliot stood and pulled him up right into his arms, placing a chaste kiss at the corner of his mouth. “You’re very cute in your J. Crew sweater.” He brushed Quentin’s hair back from his ear. “I wanna take it off.” 

Quentin laughed, a syrupy swirl of excitement winding through him. He got to have this, after all these months of wanting.

***

The Thanksgiving trauma was kept to a bare minimum. Well, mostly. 

Quentin was well and truly breakfast-tipsy by the time Maryann arrived. Eliot had his arm around Quentin, leaning all _long_ and casual against the kitchen island. “I wanna tell you about—” Eliot whispered in his ear, a very slight tipsy edge to his voice. “—mmm, taking that shirt off you. As soon as we get to The Lodge tomorrow.”

“I hope _also_ before then.” Quentin sipped at his Bloody Mary. It was peppery and sharp. Eliot had added banana peppers to the mix, and Quentin’s mouth tingled delightfully. He wiggled into Eliot’s side, warm and happy. He smelled like woodsmoke and ozone, his cashmere sweater cool from standing outside and watching his dad, wide-eyed, fuck up the turkey and possibly destroy his three-month-old smoker. It had gotten to a point where they could both smell the turkey actually _burning_ , so Eliot had shoved Quentin back inside where they stood, snuggled together, flirting and digging into a Costco cheese ball with Triscuits and Ritz Crackers.

“Maybe also before then. Depending on how horrifying the turkey is.”

“Shh.” Quentin leaned in conspiratorially. “It’ll be—it’ll be _fine_. Maryann is bringing a _ham_.”

Eliot sipped his Bloody Mary and licked a spot of tomato juice from his upper lip. Quentin leaned up to kiss him, taking Eliot’s wrist and moving his hand to the back of his neck. Hot breath against his lips, a laugh. “You’re such a ho.”

“God, look who’s talking.” Quentin pushed his nose against Eliot’s neck, smushed in just below his ear. He smelled citrusy right there, like his cologne. That scent had stuck with Quentin from the first time they kissed. If Quentin had any power of analysis after that whirlwind of a night, he would have known he was beyond all hope when it came to Eliot. 

The door to the kitchen slammed open—there was no other word for it really. It banged against the kitchen wall, shaking the linoleum floor. A woman with dark brown hair with a faint streak of white running down her center part entered, smiling her red-lipstick smile and looking very unlike any other woman Ted Coldwater had dated. He’d dated _some_ , certainly, but he’d they’d been mostly Jersey neighborhood moms who seemed more or less sexless in Quentin’s mind. Despite her very obvious dye job—which didn’t really look _bad_ —Maryann was _sexy_. She was a couple of inches shorter than Quentin but with curves poured into her frame that would look less out of place on a woman a couple of inches _taller_ than Quentin. She had on a black and white striped wrap shirt that was holding on for dear life and very possibly praying that it had the moral fortitude to keep Maryann’s tits contained. 

“Hey, y’all—you must be Q.” _Kyuuu._ Where in the hell did his dad find this woman? 

“Uh, oh. Yeah, that’s me,” Quentin said, extracting himself from Eliot’s gangly arms. He shook her hand, her palm cool and dry. 

“If Ted had told me this is where the handsome boys were hiding, I’d’ve been in here sooner.” She winked at Quentin. 

“It is—” Quentin gulped, blushing, trying not to look at the pulsating black-and-white optical illusion shirt stretched over his dad’s _girlfriend’s_ boobs. “— _super_ nice to meet you, Maryann.”

“And you’re Eliot, right?” Maryann turned her hawkish midnight-blue eyes (were they _contacts?_ ) to Eliot. “Ted didn’t tell me you were so _tall_.”

“I don’t see why he would have mentioned it,” Eliot said, extending his hand with the impeccable dignity he reserved for very strange situations. “It’s a delight to meet you. Ted’s told us so much about you.” God, give Eliot a simple task like—admitting to himself that he wanted to be in a relationship, and he fucked it all up. Put him with a weird stranger and he was all, _nice to meet you, Maryann._

“Only good things I hope. Did he tell you how we met? It’s a funny story, really.” 

“No,” Quentin said blankly. 

“You know he’s taking an art course at the community college, right?”

Quentin shook his head. He felt Eliot’s hand settle on his shoulder. “Um. No. I did not know that.”

“Well, I teach art classes locally. Got my degree in Savannah, but I can’t stand the heat—so I moved up here a couple years ago and got a job up there. Anyway—”

“So you’re his art teacher?” Quentin swallowed, throat clicking wetly. 

“Oh, no, honey. I can’t _believe_ he didn’t tell you! This is _so_ funny.”

“I’m all ears,” Eliot said. He squeezed Quentin’s shoulder and stepped closer behind him. He could feel Eliot’s amusement radiating from every pore. 

“Well. The model for his figure drawing class—”

“Oh my God,” Quentin said, without meaning to. Maryann, of course, didn’t notice—or didn’t _care_. Eliot squeezed his shoulder again, absolutely _trying not to laugh_.

“She had the flu, which would _not_ be good, so I stepped in at the last second.”

“For like, hand modeling?” Quentin’s voice was pitched high. “It was hand modeling, right?”

Maryann laughed. “Oh, you are so _cute_.”

“He _is_ so cute,” Eliot said. 

“Anyway, I saw your dad while I was in the buff, modeling for this whole class of sixty-something retirees, and he was so _handsome,_ I just went and gave him my number as soon as everyone got finished.” She laughed. “He was so flustered.”

“I can _only imagine_ ,” Eliot said. 

“He _blushed_. It was the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.” She grinned, clearly thrilled with herself. “And do you know what?”

“No, I don’t,” Eliot said. “What?”

“He called me that very next week. We’ve been seeing each other since then. I figured he musta liked what he saw.” She winked at Quentin again. 

“That is a _truly_ amazing story. One for the ages.” Eliot slipped his arm around Quentin’s waist. 

“Now, how did y’all get together?”

Quentin blanched. “Uh. We met at a, um. Coffee shop. Turned out our roommates were already um. Not dating? But. That’s as much as—I mean, that’s what happened.”

“Yep,” Eliot said. “Not much more to it than that.”

She looked between them, eyes sharp. “Gotta be more to it than that. Your dad said you were awfully cagey about the details.”

“Hey, Maryann. Do you need help getting the ham from your car?” Eliot squeezed Quentin's shoulder. “Ted said you had a ham.”

“I do. And I will take you up on that. Looks like we’ll need that ham. Ted’s outside destroying a perfectly good turkey, isn’t he?”

“He certainly is.” Eliot, regal as ever, took Maryann by the arm and guided her to the door, holding it open for her and complimenting _her shirt_. He guessed he and his dad _wouldn’t_ be having an all day X-Files marathon. That was fine. This was absolutely fine. He took a deep breath in, let it out through his nose. He poured more vodka into his Bloody Mary, watching Eliot through the kitchen window as he hoisted a gigantic ham out of Maryann’s ancient Mazda, its trunk full of canvases in various states of artistic completion. 

Things changed. He had; he knew that. But he hadn’t exactly expected _this_ level of change from his _Dad_ , who’d had the same midnight blue wall-to-wall carpets since the late eighties. He sipped at his drink. He’d ruined it with the addition of extra vodka, but Eliot could fix it when he came back inside. 

Quentin drank steadily—okay, it wasn’t the _best_ idea, and Eliot kept himself to two drinks, so maybe it wasn’t fair of Quentin to go through as much of the Svedka as he had. But he’d had half a dozen therapists inform him that he didn’t like _change_ , which was, you know, what was happening. It was fine for him to bring in his own changes, but that felt like more than enough to cope with at one time. Besides, his dad had recovered from cancer two years ago now, and Quentin _liked_ having just his dad at holidays. It had always been just them, for almost as long as he could remember. Quentin had had to face the idea that he might _lose that_ , and he was lucky enough that he had holidays to spare for many years to come, he hoped. It was just that he’d kind of expected things to keep being how they’d been—turkey sandwiches (when the turkey hadn’t failed) and Netflix marathons and pajamas all day. But now he was dressed, and he was standing in the kitchen while Eliot cut ham with Maryann, and he was the world’s _worst_ person, thinking about how he’d wished it was just Eliot here with him, getting to know his dad like he’d wanted. Instead it was— _this_. 

“I was a lesbian for three summers, Eliot.” Maryann was tossing potato peels in the sink, apparently hell bent on making some mashed potato monstrosity in the instant pot she had brought with her. “You can tell your roommates that.”

“They’ll be—really impressed.” He cast his eyes at Quentin as he rinsed potatoes, smiling wickedly. “I mean— _I’m_ impressed.”

“Where’s your family from? Y’all going to see them after this? Or for Christmas?”

“I—” Eliot started, clearing his throat and adjusting his tie. “They’re from the Midwest. We’re not exactly on speaking terms. So—I’ve spent the last seven Christmases in New York. And this year will probably be the same.”

“Except you can come here this time,” Quentin said. He glanced at Eliot and looked back down at his drink. 

Eliot smiled at him—that wistful, half cracked-open smile that he probably wasn’t aware was doing things on his face.

“Y’all are really the sweetest,” Maryann said. 

Ted burst through the door, holding a giant metal pan full of a partially smoked turkey that was very likely at least partially raw in the center. It always was, no matter how his father cooked it. _Always_. At least that hadn’t changed. 

“Got some turkey for you guys,” his dad said, smiling beatifically.

“Oh. That looks—just _great_ ,” Eliot said. “Really—special.”

Quentin stifled a laugh. Maryann was hacking randomly at the potatoes and instructing Eliot to find the steamer—which, of course, his dad didn’t own. “Well, we can _improvise_. That’s always what I’m doing—you know, as an art teacher. If it weren’t for improvising, I never would have met Ted.”

Quentin heard the words vaguely, washing over him in a dim, vodka-laden wave. He shouldn’t have brought Eliot—they should have stayed in Quentin’s apartment for the week. And God, Quentin was an _awful_ , truly _awful_ person for not being ecstatic that his dad had found a woman that he liked.

“Hey—Maryann—” Eliot’s voice was gentle. “Is there a vegetable?” 

“Oh my gosh,” his dad said, “I knew I’d forgotten _something_.”

“Ah. Okay. I hate to say this but—these potatoes are—they don’t look _great_ ,” Eliot said. “They smell like Old Bay seasoning, which means they, well they’ve gone _off_.”

“Pay that no mind, baby. I cut out the dead spots.”

“The what now?” Eliot’s voice was strained. Quentin tipped the last of his drink down his throat, stomach rumbling. If Julia were here, she’d be telling him he needed to eat and not _drink_ anything else.

“You know, the gray spots. Dead spots.”

Eliot clapped his hands. “Okay, so—what grocery store is open?” 

“Food Lion—right up the street,” his dad said. “But—Eliot—we’re fine. The potatoes are— _fine_.” There was a hint of skepticism in his voice. Ted Coldwater obviously did not believe the potatoes were fine.

Eliot took a deep breath, glancing back at Quentin, apparently mustering all the patience he’d cultivated in his year and a half of living with Margo and Kady. “I think... and I may be wrong—but I feel like food poisoning could put a damper on the fun family Thanksgiving vibe you’re going for here. So—I have some— _standard dishes_ that I can make quickly, and we know for sure they won’t make us sick because they’re from the frozen foods aisle. A little—farm boy magic.”

Something stirred in Quentin, effervescent and warm. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “I’ll, um. I’ll go with you.”

“You all,” Eliot said, searching through his dad’s kitchen and locating gin, tonic, and a solitary shriveled lime, “just relax.” His hands—Quentin _loved his hands_ —flew when he fixed drinks, adding just the right amount of ice, a bit of bubbly tonic, a few squeezes of lime. “We’re going to take care of it.”

“We?” Quentin’s brain sloshed in his head. He needed to _stop_. 

“Yes, Quentin and I are going to go to the store. We’re going to get a pre-cooked turkey—Ted, that turkey is not cooked—and a green vegetable that we’re going to drown in fried onions—and a potato dish that won’t send us to the emergency room. I’m going to give you these drinks—” He put a glass in Ted’s hand, the other one in Maryann’s. “—and we’re going to get something else together for dinner. Quentin and I ate about half that cheese ball, but that’s what you’re having for lunch. Dinner’s in two and a half hours. Okay?”

“Well, okay,” Quentin’s dad said. He had the aura of a man who’d just witnessed entropy in reverse, a tidying of things falling apart.

“Alright,” Quentin said. “I’ll, uh. Show you where the Food Lion is.” He scratched at the back of his head and grabbed Eliot’s hand, leading him to the door.”

“This one _drives!_ ” Ted was laughing as the door shut behind them, Quentin tugging Eliot toward the car. 

“Oh holy fuck, your dad is going to hate me.”

“My dad?” Quentin laughed, hopping in the passenger’s seat. “He doesn’t hate anyone. He especially doesn’t hate you. He fucks up Thanksgiving massively every year. Last year, we ordered Domino’s. Let’s go.”

A look of profound relief crossed Eliot’s face. He pressed his forehead to the steering wheel and pressed the ignition key.

When they returned from the grocery store with an assortment of ingredients that Quentin thought had absolutely no relation to one another, Maryann and his dad were snuggled up on the sofa in the living room, apparently completely fine with letting Eliot handle Thanksgiving. 

“See?” Quentin leaned up and kissed him because Eliot was _so cute_ when he was nervous, and he was _nervous_ about this—about being a hero. “They couldn’t give a fuck. Now—I have no idea what the hell we’re doing. But I can help.” 

Eliot smiled weakly, placing a kiss on Quentin’s forehead. “Let’s open up this bag of tots, okay?”

“I still have no idea what this has to do with Thanksgiving, but I’ll trust you.”

“You should.”

Quentin laughed. “Fine. I’m guessing your Thanksgiving looked quite a bit different than mine.”

“You have _no idea_. At least I didn’t get the ingredients for strawberry Jello-pretzel salad.”

“That sounds kind of amazing.” 

“God,” Eliot said wistfully. “It kind of _is_. Maybe for Christmas.”

Quentin smiled. He started pouring himself another drink, but Eliot stopped him. “You’re like a hundred pounds. One more drink and you’ll be eating Thanksgiving dinner on the floor.”

“ _Fine_. Now what the fuck is cheddar cheese soup, and why do we have it?”

“All in good time,” Eliot said. He leaned down and brushed his lips against Quentin’s. “You’ll find out what everything is for.”

“That’s what they all say,” Quentin said. It was a stupid thing to say, and it made absolutely zero sense, but it was sort of vaguely dirty, and Eliot smiled and placed a hand on the small of his back.

“Okay, baby, let’s get these tots in the oven.”

***

“Oh _Eliot_.” Maryann was beaming at him. “This is absolutely _spectacular_.”

A pleased smile swept over Eliot’s face. “Just a few family recipes. One of the only things I brought with me from Indiana.”

Eliot had wrapped a pre-cooked turkey in bacon (his dad’s turkey _was_ raw, with about an inch deep of actually smoked meat), created something called a ‘tater tot casserole,’ which contained not only tots but also cheddar cheese soup, cream of mushroom soup, two cups of cheddar cheese—which seemed like it really _shouldn’t_ mix with the cheddar cheese soup—sour cream, canned corn, and ground beef. The ‘vegetable’ he’d made involved green beans from a can, _more_ cream of mushroom soup, onion soup mix, and French fried onions. And it was—well, it wasn’t _healthy_ , and they were likely to die tonight from joint heart attacks, but it was _delicious_. He’d also heated up yeast rolls and whipped together a gravy from thin air, dicing up boiled eggs and rendering a bit of the turkey fat with chicken broth and flour and something called ‘liquid smoke.’ Eliot had somehow managed to turn what was _always_ a disaster in the Coldwater household into something resembling a success. Quentin had also started off resentful—and ashamed about being resentful. If Eliot hadn’t been here, he just would have gotten drunk and spent the day in his room playing video games. Instead, he was sitting across from Maryann, who was really very _weird_ —but in a very nice way. Like, a way that maybe made sense for his dad. Which was— _odd_. Quentin wasn’t all that used to being _generous_ when it came to his people, but Eliot _made_ him feel that way, and he didn’t quite know what to think about that. 

Later, when they had gathered around the fire outside, Quentin felt a sense of peace he hadn’t felt in—well, maybe ever. Eliot’s arm was around him, and Maryann was telling some story about art school, and it was all very homey, the sun fading out, orange and pink, behind the poplar trees in their backyard. 

He nudged his head against Eliot’s shoulder. “I think it was a good Thanksgiving.” He took in a deep breath; the air smelled almost like winter. The fire cracked, releasing steam from the damp wood. “Thanks for, you know, actually making us something to eat.” 

“No problem, baby.” Like it was just _easy_ to swoop in and make something from nothing. But that’s sort of what Eliot did, wasn’t it?

“I’d like it if you came for Christmas. I could help you cook.”

Eliot hummed and kissed him on the top of the head. “I’d definitely go for a more sophisticated menu.”

“Don’t do that for my sake,” Quentin said. “I liked the tater tots.”

***

The next morning, Quentin made absolutely no comment that Maryann was still in the kitchen. He’d gone to bed with his earplugs in, his face pressed into Eliot’s chest hair, breathing in his solid-masculine scent as he drifted to sleep. Maryann had just _been there_ when they woke up, sharing coffee with Ted in the kitchen. 

“Where’s this place y’all are headed to?” She looked up from her game of Words with Friends on her phone. She was playing against his _dad_.

“Hudson River Valley. It’s a spa. Or so Eliot says.” Quentin hoisted his bag over his shoulder. Eliot had already donned his Ray Bans and his ‘driving outfit,’ which involved a long-sleeved polo and a dark blue cardigan that gave Quentin filthy thoughts. He looked over at Eliot, who was crafting some sort of substitute-latte for himself, immediately blushing when Eliot caught his eye and smirked. 

“Sea salt rubs and hot springs,” Eliot said. He took Quentin’s bag, slinging it over his shoulder easily. Quentin’s stomach swooped. “We just needed a little space from the city.”

“I don’t blame you a bit. Maybe you should give us the name of that place if you like it,” Ted said. 

Quentin’s blush grew deeper, his brain split in two wildly different directions—one pleasing and one _very much not_. “Uh. Yeah. I will.”

“I’m going to go pack up the car,” Eliot said. He leaned in and kissed Quentin on the cheek.

Quentin shuffled awkwardly, glancing at his dad quickly and then away. He hadn’t really been _alone_ with his dad since they’d gotten here. 

“I like him,” his dad said. “He’s a nice boy.”

Quentin’s cheeks grew redder because Eliot was _kind_ to his friends, but he wouldn’t go around slapping the label ‘nice boy’ on him. He was often a lot of trouble, but then again, so was Quentin. 

“He’s so _handsome_ ,” Maryann said. 

“Mmm,” Quentin said because he absolutely _couldn’t_ argue with that logic, but he also really couldn’t confirm it in front of his dad’s girlfriend. _God._

“Looks come and go, but good cooking stays forever,” Maryann quipped.

Quentin looked down at his feet. When Eliot came back in, a breeze following him inside, he shook Ted’s hand and didn’t balk when Maryann drew him into a hug. A small, bright flower bloomed in his chest, warm and pleased. He hadn’t known this was the right thing when he’d thought of it, but it had solidified something in him, a bit of knowing he hadn’t had before. They left, and the feeling stayed with him along the winding roads to their destination.

***

The Lodge was... well, it was like a nineteenth century French manor house, replete with private hot springs and a Michelin Star restaurant. He didn’t really know what the fuck a Michelin Star meant, but this place had one. Or two. He didn’t remember.

“It’s definitely ritzy... you’re sure you’re not like, in debt over this?”

“I’m sure, my love,” Eliot said. He took Quentin’s bag, because he just did things like that; kept _doing things_ like that. “Kady got us the suite, and we have massages booked with the guys’ personal therapists. And I got you a _spa treatment_.”

Quentin blushed. “Oh God, like—waxing my legs or something?”

“Baby,” Eliot said, cupping Quentin’s face in his hands, “I would _never_ take a hair off of that beautiful body of yours.”

“God— _El_ —”

“But I am getting you a coffee-sugar scrub and a massage so you’re all soft and relaxed when I fuck you tonight.”

Quentin’s eyes went wide, and he barked out a little laugh. “God, I should have known.”

“Should have known what?” He placed a soft kiss on Quentin’s lips, slow and wet, his hand to the back of Quentin’s neck where Quentin _loved_ it. And holy shit—would he _make it_ through the massage and the scrub without getting a raging boner. 

“That you’d make a big production of this. That’s why you’ve been stalling.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Eliot smiled, kissing down the side of Quentin’s neck, sending sweet shivers down his spine. 

“That you’d go through all this trouble to make it—like memorable or whatever?”

“What? Make what memorable?” Eliot preened, obviously very pleased with himself. He took Quentin by the waist and pulled him in close. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You know.”

“Hmmm?”

“Fucking me,” Quentin murmured, pulling Eliot down by his collar and licking at the underside of his jaw just to hear him _gasp_. He smelled so fucking good, strong and masculine; his stubble was deliciously scratchy.

“Fuck, didn’t think you were gonna say it. You get so _shy_ , baby.” Eliot’s voice rumbled; Quentin felt it in his marrow, that casual, deep reverberation that stayed with him and lived in his bones. He casually grabbed Quentin’s ponytail and _yanked it_ , sending a sparkle of sensation down his spine.

“Fuck off.” Quentin laughed and pushed at the center of Eliot’s chest. 

Eliot got that look in his eyes—almost _predatory_. “I’m going to fuck you all over this room. I’m going to jerk you off at the spa just to watch your face.”

“Jesus. Don’t get us kicked out of the fucking hotel.”

“That’s low key always been a goal of mine,” Eliot said. “Get kicked out of a classy bed and breakfast for fucking my boyfriend too much.”

“Oh yeah? You had ‘boyfriend’ as part of that scenario?”

“Definitely not before,” Eliot said, nuzzling at his ear, burying his nose in Quentin’s hair. “But now? Absolutely yes. ‘Depraved boyfriend’ is my whole aesthetic.”

“And how is that a—a _thing_? Like—jerking someone off in a public place is not part of—an aesthetic.”

“Says you,” Eliot said. His stubble scraped against Quentin’s cheek, breath hot in his ear, the pathways along his skin lighting up with the filthy-needy thing he felt when he thought about Eliot fucking him. “Hmm, we have a massage in fifteen minutes.”

“A _massage_?” Quentin pouted. “We could just stay here and order room service. Right?”

“Definitely not, _no_. Get your robe on, and we’re going to the _spa_. We’re going to get our muscles kneaded out and drink cucumber water—”

“Fuck _no_ —I draw the line at cucumber water—”

Eliot, as Eliot so often did, completely ignored him. He was stripping out of the sweater he’d worn in the car and slipping—distractingly—into one of the fluffy white robes in the closet. The place was so fancy there weren’t even hotel logos on their robes. “And we’re doing stupid couple shit. Holding hands and— _you’re_ getting a body scrub.” 

“Eliot. I don’t need this,” Quentin said, his eyes automatically drawn to the little patch of chest hair visible beneath the robe. 

“Baby. I know you don’t. You’ve made it abundantly clear you aren’t the fussy type.” Eliot tucked his hands beneath Quentin’s shirt, running his thumb in small circles. “But I need—I need to cool down. From everything.” He did the thing where his hands covered almost the entirety of Quentin’s waist. “I’m the one that needs this. I wanna do something where—nothing between us is _fake_. And nothing revolves around smoking a turkey or trying to impress your dad.”

Quentin laughed and stuck his face right against Eliot’s neck, his chin just barely nestled in the dark hair peeking out. “My dad really likes you.”

“Good. But I’m here and I—I just wanna be with you. And if you’re with me, I want to do things like this. I’m not going to make a big deal out of _money_ —this is basically _free_ because Kady is better at life than I am—”

“Stop. I’d _really_ rather fuck you than Kady.”

Eliot hummed and scratched through the hair on his belly. “I wanna do things not because you expect something from me. But because I wanna be _with you_ , show you how special you are. I’m good at that. So let me do it.”

“Okay,” Quentin said. “This is not _really_ my thing—”

“But it will be. You’re gonna love it. Go on and strip for me, baby.”

Quentin’s cheeks went hot. “Stop—I’d rather not get an accidental erection on a massage table.”

“Says you,” Eliot said, utterly nonsensical.

“We’re really just wearing robes like—walking in the hallway?”

“Yes. Yes, we _really are_.”

***

Quentin was a puddle of a human when they walked back to the room, hand in hand. He’d been utterly distracted looking over at Eliot during their massages and body scrubs. He smelled like brown sugar and essential oils, his skin loaded with caffeine and renewing plant essences, his muscles strummed out and loose in a way he hadn’t felt in—well, ever. His body was always working against him, making knots in inconvenient places and seizing up when he decided to write until 3AM with his knees tucked under his hips in the rickety office chair he inherited from his dad two years ago. This afternoon, he’d been pulled apart and put back together, soaked and scrubbed and plunged into a hot sea-salt soak only to be plunged again into a cold bath. Finally, a warm shower where everything washed away save for the scent of sugar and herbs. 

“You look so relaxed, baby,” Eliot said, taking his shoulders and guiding him to their door. Quentin probably would have kept walking until he hit a wall or fell into a hot spring. He leaned down and whispered as he pulled out the key card. “And now I’m gonna fuck you so hard you forget your own name.”

“‘S’nice,” Quentin said. He sounded a little drunk. “I mean it—yeah. Do whatever you want.” He let out a satisfied little yawn. “‘M ready.”

The keycard beeped, and Eliot held the door open for Quentin, herding him inside. “You better be. I’ve been thinking about all the things I’m going to do to you for the past three hours.”

Quentin stumbled inside the room, his knees suddenly weak. Eliot had that _look_ , the one he had when he’d casually told Quentin to fuck him two nights ago. And he was pulling Quentin by his robe tie, making his brain blank out on a hundred different levels. How could Eliot do that? Quentin had _known_ they’d be fucking. He’d— _well_ —he’d planned for it. He knew how to do this. He’d done this. He’d been wanting to do this since like August 20th, the day he left his fucking scone on the counter at The Cinnamon Roll. He was _literally_ actually really ready, and he’d been massaged for three hours. And he was stumbling over himself fucking _blushing_ like a goddamn maniac. “Uh. Oh—oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Eliot hitched him closer, tugging the robe loose and pushing it back over Quentin’s shoulders. It fell to the floor, pooling around his feet, leaving him in just the—yeah, he’d only gotten one pack; he needed more if he wanted to keep _being mostly naked_ in front of Eliot—boxer briefs from Amazon that hadn’t really held up through multiple washings at this point. They were better than nothing. Well. Actually. Eliot dipped one thumb in his waistband, rucking it down so that the elastic trapped Quentin’s stiffening cock against his thigh. “I’d like to—” He palmed Quentin’s cock, pressed it against his body, smirking at Quentin as he grew hard, pulsing against Eliot’s hand. “Put you in something really pretty. What do you think about that, baby? Something _sheer_ so I can see your pretty cock when it gets hard for me.”

“Um.” Quentin glanced at the ceiling and back at Eliot, his eyes dark green in the afternoon sun. He could be an adult human having a conversation about this. “I’ve never. Is that a thing—that you like?” 

“Yes it is,” Eliot said, voice low. He gripped Quentin and pressed his lips to the line of his collarbone, sucking gently against it. He scraped his teeth over it and Quentin was—he was shaking a little now, even though he shouldn’t be—they were together. And Eliot was _like this_ sometimes—like someone had flipped a switch, and Eliot turned into some sort of sex-superhuman, plucking things out of Quentin’s brain and turning them into elaborate fantasies. His mouth. His fucking _mouth_. “I like lace. And I think I’d like it a lot on you. Get you all hard—” He slipped the boxer briefs down, letting Quentin’s trapped dick escape, slapping against his stomach. “—jerk off all over you—”

“Holy _shit_ —”

“Lick you all clean and tease you for hours.” Eliot placed a quick, chaste kiss against his lips, drawing a line down his cock—from tip to base—and cupping his balls, tugging gently and rolling them between his fingers. “Can’t have that tonight but—sometime soon.”

Quentin nodded mutely. He should—say something, respond. Tell Eliot he’d do _anything_ , anything for him. He’d be whatever Eliot wanted. But he thought—Eliot had _said_ —he really just wanted Quentin. 

Eliot’s robe had fallen down over one shoulder, revealing the carved lines of bone and sinew, all elegance. “Tonight I’m just gonna fuck you. I’m gonna spend a nice long time getting you ready.” He swept his hand around to grab Quentin’s ass, a nice handful of it, rumbling his approval. 

“I mean—I’ve _done this_ before—”

Eliot rolled his eyes. “I _know_. You’re terrible for my virgin fantasies—”

“Your _what?_ ”

“—so baby, I know you know what you’re doing. _And_ I want you begging for my cock. Okay?”

“God.” He bit his lip. “Yes. Of course. I’m just—I get a little overwhelmed.”

“I know, sweet thing. Come on.” Eliot tugged his underwear down the rest of the way, holding Quentin’s hand as he stepped out of them. “Fuck, you’re already _that_ hard, huh? Sounds like I have the right idea.” He brushed his fingers back down Quentin’s cock, sending heady whorls of sparks through Quentin’s belly, all _wanting_ , wanting Eliot. “Don’t want you coming right away, anyway.”

“Oh, _fuck_.” Quentin watched as Eliot’s robe fell away from his shoulders, revealing the lovely dark thatch of chest hair, the dusky pink buds of his nipples, the broad lines of his shoulders and his narrow waist. He was wearing just the silky dark boxers he’d worn before his massage and put on again after the baths. Eliot’s cock was hard to miss even when he was completely soft, and he wasn’t that right now. His massive length was pressed tight against the fabric. Quentin’s hand automatically sought it out. “Can I?” Quentin’s voice was embarrassingly small, like they hadn’t been falling into bed with each other for weeks. Like he hadn’t _fucked Eliot_ not forty-eight hours ago.

“Just a touch,” Eliot said indulgently. 

Quentin outright _moaned_ when he touched Eliot’s dick. “Fuck, you’re big. God. I know I always say that, but Jesus—” It was so _thick_ and _hot_ , and Eliot let out a low laugh when he stroked his fingers over it. He loved that laugh. Apart from looking exactly like a Shakespearean wet dream on and off the stage, Quentin had first fallen in love with that laugh, low and sexy. The kind of delighted sound you didn’t expect someone that good looking to make because they probably didn’t have a sense of humor or a sense of the weird, both of which Eliot _did_ have. Eliot took his hand, meeting Quentin’s eyes, all cracked open _longing_.

“Come on, baby, let’s get up on the bed.” Quentin whined and let Eliot guide him onto the king size bed, moving him so he was lying down flat on his stomach. “Think I want you like this. You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m splendid,” Quentin said into the pillow. 

“Look at you,” he murmured, squeezing Quentin’s ass, long fingers kneading into his already kneaded flesh. “You feel so good.” Eliot ran his palms over Quentin’s sides, fingers bumping over the peaks and valleys of his ribs, over his arms, up to his shoulders. He could hear Eliot breathing just above him, the warmth of his skin, the weight of his presence. The top of his head prickled with it—the anticipation, but not just that. It was more the sensation of being _seen_ in the way that only Eliot saw him. His body was a pool of warmth, glowing light his cock aching hard and pulsing, pressed into the cool sheets. “And you’re all mine.” Eliot brushed his lips over the shell of Quentin’s ear, a shimmering ripple of _want_ rolling through him at his touch, the heat of his breath. “Aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice distant. 

“Gonna get you ready, baby,” he said. “Just make sure you don’t come, okay?”

“No promises,” Quentin said, laughing a little. 

Eliot gripped his ass and squeezed roughly. “Definitely not allowed. You’re going to come on my cock. That’s what we’re here for.”

“ _Probably_ ,” Quentin said, his scalp still tingling. Sweat had started to bead up on his forehead, and he wasn’t actually doing _anything_. This is just what Eliot did to him. 

Eliot smacked his ass, squeezed it again. “Definitely.” 

Quentin sighed against the pillow. “‘Kay.” He wasn’t one hundred percent sure what he was agreeing to, something about coming on Eliot’s dick, which really wasn’t a hardship. He could _keep it together_ until then. 

“Meanwhile—”

“Meanwhile?”

“ _Meanwhile_ , I’m going to—” Eliot’s thumbs dug into the taut muscles at the base of his spine, moving lower until they were on either side of his hole, pulling his cheeks apart. And yeah, he knew this. His cheeks flushed, chest flushed, the whole of him flushed, just a quivering pile of gelatinous _knowing_ , knowing what Eliot wanted, what he was going to do, and just how fucking _skilled_ he was at exactly this. “—mm, gonna make you go crazy for it.” 

Warm breath against him. The sure touch of a fingertip against his entrance. “Gonna— _yeah_ —oh my _God_ —”

Eliot’s tongue traced over the outer edge of the tight whorl of skin and muscle, pressing gently, exploratory. “Gonna beg for it—”

“Mmmnnnnnnn.” Quentin tried to find a word, but Eliot had taken them, swallowed them up. 

He started slow, tongue barely lapping against Quentin’s hole, soft-textured and _hot_ , sending a spike of raw, split-open pleasure through his hips and thighs and the frenetic, nearly vibrating length of his cock. Eliot’s freshly shaved jaw was tucked against his ass, nose pressed tight against the base of his tailbone as he licked and kissed like Quentin’s ass was meant to be savored, like it wasn’t just _ordinary_ , like it really _was_ his, like he _loved it_. Thumbs pressed in further, spreading him open, and Eliot speared his tongue inside, opening him. The sounds that Eliot made—pitched low and heavy—reverberated inside of him, low trills through his sinew and muscle and bone. He knew he was saying something, moving against the bed, cock seeking friction, but his brain had gone almost blank as Eliot licked inside of him, deeper and deeper still. Quentin’s body released and gave, fluttering open, hot spit dripping down the soft stretch of skin behind his balls, everything filthy-wet as Eliot licked and licked and groaned against him, _debauched_ , like he was the one naked, getting licked open. 

There was a lull—Eliot pulling away and leaving him painfully empty, his skin strangely cool and exposed, his ass longing to clench down on something. But Quentin heard the cap of Eliot’s lube opening, Eliot’s boxers falling to the floor—a “Fuck, baby, you _taste so good_ —and his lips and tongue were on Quentin again, causing him to cry out, low and long, clutching at the pillow and pushing his ass back against Eliot’s face. Eliot was spreading his legs apart, pushing him up on his knees, tonguing in further and gripping one of his thighs hard enough to bruise. Two fingers, impatient, pushed at his opening as Eliot _kept licking_ around his hole. Quentin pressed back and bore down, whining, high and animal, as Eliot pushed inside, almost rough but not quite—just _insistent_ , just _showing_ Quentin who he belonged to. Eliot’s fingers bottomed out, and he shifted, legs behind Quentin’s, hard, heavy cock pushing against his thigh. 

“Q,” he said, a broken syllable. “God, you always—you take my fingers so good, baby. You’re so smooth and— _God_ —so soft.” The hand on his thigh fell away and Quentin heard the distinct sound of Eliot jerking himself off while he fucked into Quentin with his fingers, pulling back and driving in, just barely brushing over his prostate, making Quentin’s body _writhe_ , the moans coming out of him dark and _broken_. “That first day I met you, I went home and—and I jerked off thinking about this. It’s better than—it’s _always_ better than I imagined it.” Eliot pulled his wet fingers out, adding more lube and pushing in with a third finger, groaning when Quentin pushed back against him. He felt wrung out from the inside, his body all loose but— _wanting, needing_ , his cock _painful_ , pressing wet against his belly. 

“El— _Eliot_ —”

“I’ve got you, sweetheart.” 

Quentin listened to the ragged sound of his own breathing, the heavenly-rhythmic noise of Eliot’s hand on his own cock, the dirty-slick sound of Eliot’s three fingers fucking him, opening him. “El—please—I need—”

“Come on, baby. Tell me what you need.” 

“ _Fuck_. I wanna—want you to fuck me. Please. _Please_.” He dared to look back to Eliot. His eyes were blown black, his curls damp with sweat, his cock flushed and wet with lube, standing hard between his legs as he worked his hand over it. 

“It’s a lot to handle,” Eliot said, low. “You sure?”

Quentin quaked all over as Eliot added a forth finger, pushing in and just _holding_ him open. “God—yes—”

Eliot sighed, as if contented, relieved. Quentin was empty a moment before the blunt press of Eliot’s cock against his hole took over the entirety of his one remaining brain cell. Lube-wet fingers gripping his slim hips, Eliot pushed, slow, body shaking until the head popped inside, an awed moan falling from his lips as he entered Quentin, pressing forward, leaning into his body and stretching him open. Quentin thought about how it had felt when he’d breached Eliot, hot all around his cock, vise-like and velvety-soft. 

“How’s it feel?” There was a soft tremor in Eliot’s voice. “Tell me.”

“Like I’m—split in half—in a good way,” Quentin said. He shifted beneath Eliot, pushing back and taking _more_ , more inside. Deeper. 

Eliot let out a punched-out noise, fucking into Quentin helplessly, giving him almost, but not quite, the whole length of him. “Fuck—don’t—don’t hurt yourself—”

“Wanna—want it all.” 

Eliot shifted, his cock moving inside of Quentin, just the lightest drag, fucking into him a bit further and drawing back again, panting. “Don’t wanna—go too fast, _baby_.” He sounded mildly _annoyed_.

“Come _on_ ,” Quentin said. He pushed back again, biting his lip and _groaning_ as Eliot slipped just a bit further inside. He was so close; his hand shot back and grabbed at Eliot’s hip, like he could push him the rest of the way inside. Sweat rolled down his forehead, into his eyes, heart pounding, scattered and desperate, Eliot grunting and clutching at Quentin’s hand as he held himself steady, apparently unwilling to _actually fuck_ Quentin. “Just fuck me.”

“Don’t be—“ Eliot’s voice was a broken thing, thin and tremulous. “—so bitchy. I’ll just—” He shifted forward, just pushing in a little bit further. “—pull out and go back—” He clutched at Quentin’s hip, fingers still slick with lube. “—to the spa.”

“Liar,” Quentin said, his whole body seizing up and shivering as he bore down and back, his cock hard and hot between his legs, leaden with arousal. 

“Fuck, you’re obnoxious.” There was no real weight behind the words, and Quentin laughed, his husk of a body hollowed out and burned from inside, flame on water.

“Yeah. I’m—just. Get _inside me_ ,” he whined.

“ _Fine_.” Eliot was _trembling_ , his breath ragged and undercut with short, hot vocalizations as his hips stuttered and he hitched forward, finally buried inside, the base of his cock flush with Quentin’s ass. 

Quentin’s thighs were on fire—he felt it, felt it high in his body, behind his beating heart, streaming down the length of his back, crinkling beneath the roots of his hair. Eliot’s hands petted over his sides, his arms, down over his ass, the backs of his thighs. “You’re so goddamn beautiful,” Eliot said, bewildered, like he was confused by it, blown away. “And fucking annoying.” He thumbed at the place where his cock disappeared inside Quentin, pressed down tight with the pad of his finger, pulling back and shuddering as he pushed inside again. 

“Yeah,” Quentin agreed, shaking his head. “I mean.” He knit his brows, his mind fuzzing out, his thoughts silvery-gray around the edges. Eliot laughed, snapping his hips one time, then twice, an infuriating space of time between each thrust. “I don’t know. What I mean.”

“You’re—you feel good, so—mm, _baby_. I’m—” Eliot gripped his hips, fucking into him steadily, firm, controlled strokes, his words falling away. There was a wild rhythm to it, the way Eliot fucked, his huge hands covering Quentin’s ass, his thumb pressing down against his rim—light, so light—but the extra pressure driving him insane, his cock leaking on the hotel duvet. They’d need another fucking shower, call the fucking— _housekeeping service_ or something. It didn’t matter, did it—it was—this wasn’t reality, not for now—it was vacation or—holiday, either one, both. And they could strip the bed and lie in it bare, holding each other, falling asleep and waking up again to fuck, Eliot driving into him until neither of them could move or breathe or think. Eliot’s hips stuttered, and he made a low, punched out sound, driving hard into Quentin and pressing against his prostate, sparks shooting all the way down to his ankles. 

“Ff-fuck—Eliot—” His feet curled up, toes cracking.

“I’m gonna come if we don’t slow down. You’re—you’re tight, baby—so fucking hot.” He quaked, hips twitching, shoved all the way inside Quentin’s ass. Quentin knew that like— _tight_ wasn’t like a fucking compliment, or whatever. Not when it came to like, fucking someone any kind of way since it was all pretty tight, wasn’t it, when it came down to it. It was good and hot and _tight_ no matter who you were fucking, but holy _fuck_ did it do something to his stupid fucking lizard brain, his whole body firing off like it was a national holiday and the neighbors had busted out illegal fireworks.

“Mm, ‘kay,” Quentin said, fucking eloquently.

Eliot squeezed at him, his ass and his hips where he was ticklish, sending a different kind of zing right down to the tip of his cock where he was red and wet and _hungry_. “Can you—I wanna touch you—”

“Fuck, I’ll like—” Quentin panted. “—I’ll _definitely_ come if you do so—”

“No, just. Sit back with me—no, yeah—hold onto—the headboard.”

Quentin nodded, sweaty hair swinging in front of his face, like that made sense—it _didn’t_ make sense, but Eliot would put him where he needed him. Eliot would take care of him and make him come and fuck him again in the morning. A weird tilting sensation hit him, and he was sitting back, feet sliding over the covers until he was on Eliot’s lap, feet tucked up next to Eliot’s, Eliot’s big arm across his belly. Eliot’s lips at his neck, nipping and sucking, licking at the sweat-salty skin. One hand took his and put it on the top of the antique wooden headboard; he gripped it until he saw white along his knuckles. “Oh _fuck_ —”

“I’m gonna touch you, make you feel good.”

Quentin whined, and Eliot bit his earlobe. He shivered, pressing back into Eliot. “I’m gonna—”

“Not touching your cock. Just relax, close your eyes.”

Quentin nodded and turned his head back, eliciting a little surprised moan as Eliot leaned in and kissed him, sloppy-wet and delicious, his mouth still tasting of raspberry lime seltzer from the spa—thank fuck there were no cucumbers in any beverages— _nasty_. But then—Eliot’s hands were on him, fingertips brushing over his nipples, pinching and pulling them. Quentin gasped and rocked against Eliot’s cock, sweet pools of warmth expanding down and settling in his hips, as his body throbbed against Eliot’s cock, clenching against it, seeking the relief he was pushing away, holding off, balling up and keeping close to his chest so he could draw it out, a bit more, a bit longer. Eliot’s hands ran down over his belly, over his taut thighs, back up over his nipples, in a repeating feedback loop of deep pleasure, building like wave after wave rolling onto shore at high tide. 

“Okay—you can—ride me a little if you want.”

“God, okay—I’m—I’m really close.”

“Good,” Eliot said, nosing at his ear and biting again at the meat of his neck. “Lean forward and—yeah—hang onto that. And _fuck me_.”

Quentin whimpered, gripped tight to the headboard, starting to rock up and back down again, over the long, thick line of Eliot’s cock, grinding it against his prostate. Precome beaded up and leaked out of him, _wet_ —he was so _wet_ —riding Eliot’s cock, pleasure so heavy it was akin to pain, his mind going blank and coming back in, drawing together a semi-coherent thought only to let it slip away the next moment. 

“Oh, _fuck_ , Q—I’m—you’re so good, baby, so fucking—sexy. Getting me just right—” Eliot babbled in his ear, a low stream of praise, Quentin’s name a benediction on his lips, all the things that Eliot thought were beautiful and lovely and _good_ , how tight and hot he was, how good Quentin had felt _inside him_ , a mindfuck of the highest order, bringing Quentin closer just with words, the rush of Eliot’s breath close to his ear. And then Eliot was tipping him forward, pushing him hard against the bed frame and taking Quentin’s cock in hand. Quentin _sobbed_ , a broken sound, as Eliot stroked him, relentless, fucking into him again with force, hips snapping, free hand around Quentin’s chest, keeping him where he wanted him. The orgasm that had been sitting on the edge of Quentin’s consciousness awakened and unspooled inside of him, hitting him with crushing force, his body clamping down on Eliot, pleasure coursing through him as he bucked against Eliot’s cock, spilling over Eliot’s hand as praise poured from his lips. Just as the last surge hit him, Eliot fucked into him harder, grunting and breathing hard, chasing his own high in the wake of Quentin’s. The aftershocks sparkled through him, just on the edge of oversensitivity. His body twitched, driving hard into Quentin, cock pulsing and releasing inside. He came with a shout, laughing against Quentin’s ear as he rocked their hips together, in time with the hunger of their bodies, the beating of their hearts.

Eliot held tight to Quentin’s body, lips pressed to his sweaty hair, forehead pressed against the base of his skull, breathing heavily. They fell on the bed, tangled together, a pile of soft animal parts and spent pleasure, sticky with sweat and come and the alkaline smell of sex. Eliot pushed Quentin’s hair back, hand moving to cradle the back of his head. Their lips slotted together, tongue pressing between Quentin’s teeth, swallowing a long sigh. Eliot’s nose was pressed into his cheek. 

“I love you, Q,” Eliot said. 

He pressed his body as close to Eliot’s as he could, all wrapped up in his love and longing. “I love you, too.”

They fell asleep like that, limbs thrown together, sated, sinking into the knowledge that neither of them had anywhere to be for now. The only place to be was here, and that was good enough.


	21. Epilogue—One Year and One Month Later, Christmas Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin has a gift for Eliot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a quick reference to the 2016 election in the first paragraph. And in the paragraph beginning “‘Not finished,’ Kady said,” there’s a reference to the general hell of 2020. Please be kind with yourself and skip it if it’s too much. I know some days this year are harder than others. <3

Chapter 21

Epilogue—Christmas Eve, one year later

~Eliot~

Eliot had spent most of his Christmases alone since moving to New York. Two Christmas Eves back, the first year he’d lived with Kady, they stayed in the apartment together and watched an entire season of The Great British Bake Off, occasionally commenting on the contestants. They’d ordered Chinese food, and he’d stood by while Kady sang and lit the first candle on the battered menorah she’d pulled out of her closet. She’d lit another candle for Christmas because she thought her dad’s family was probably Catholic, and she decided to go ahead and honor both traditions even though she’d never really been religious. Eliot got drunk and sang Good King Wenceslas, and Kady attempted to throw popcorn in his mouth while he was singing. It had been the first time he’d thought they might actually be _friends_. That had all happened six weeks after the 2016 election. Neither of them thought they’d end up celebrating anything when they ended up in the townhouse together over winter break, but Kady blandly informed him that they’d be _fucking celebrating_ because they both deserved something good in this _shithole of a fucking world_ , regardless of whether or not they really _had people_. Well, now Eliot had people. Kady had, somewhere along the way, become one of them.

This year, he was still with Kady on Christmas Eve, but he was with Julia and Quentin and Margo and Fen, too. He’d managed to convince them to leave for their respective families—Margo going home with Fen once again and Kady with Julia, Eliot with Quentin—early on Christmas morning. Last Christmas was the first he’d spent at the Coldwater household; this year would be the second.

“Come on, the _fuck_ ,” Margo slurred. She was sitting in Fen’s lap on the floor, her hair falling over Fen’s arm. “When are you two idiots getting engaged? Where’s the ring? It’s fuckin’ Christmas Eve. You’re not getting any younger. Time you settled down.” She pointed accusingly at Eliot, who only didn’t kill her immediately because she’d given him a loaded gift card to the Oasis Day Spa on Park Avenue. Daddy must have been supplying her credit card again, come to think of it, since she’d also given him and Quentin tickets to see _Hamilton_ —and she’d casually handed Q an autographed first edition of _Life, the Universe, and Everything_. Quentin was still babbling about something—talking mattresses—and Eliot thought Quentin was probably drunk, too. 

“Next year!” Julia shouted, and Quentin shoved her so hard she almost toppled into the shiny white artificial tree Fen and Margo had picked out. “Anyone taking bets?”

Kady looked between Eliot and Quentin, assessing. She pointed at Quentin. “He’ll publish some YA fantasy thing—” She clucked her tongue. “—and Eliot’ll get a minor role in some pretentious off Broadway show.”

“Go on,” Eliot said. “I like this. You know, I never considered that Quentin might have sugar daddy potential.” 

“Sugar daddy?” Quentin scrunched up his nose. “I don’t have like, _daddy_ energy.”

“No baby, that’s me,” Eliot said. Quentin poked him in his side.

“Not finished,” Kady said. “They’ll get married in 2020. But that year will be—total shit. They’ll have to postpone it. Quentin’ll get impatient, and they’ll do like a—courthouse thing, hold hands or some shit. Pinky swear.”

“That’s... oddly specific,” Fen said. There was a little furrow between her brows.

“Ugh, no,” Eliot said. Quentin looked up at him with wide brown eyes, and God, he’d clearly give this man anything in the world. It sunk in that he was _upset_ about Eliot’s reaction. Warmth stirred in his chest, a loose tipsy _knowing_ that he’d do the whole sappy fucking thing given half a chance. “I mean, it’ll be an _event_ , baby. Nothing low key about it.”

Quentin flushed and lifted Eliot’s arm, pulling it around him. “Mm, ‘kay.”

The wine flowed as they talked and listened to holiday music, all of them diving into a brie and blueberry pastry that Eliot had baked, along with the other dishes they’d prepared for their appetizer themed dinner. Afterwards, gifts were exchanged—more extravagant tickets and gift cards from Margo, cast iron cookware and knives from Fen, books for everyone from Quentin and Julia, and reservations at several exclusive restaurants from Kady’s set of connections. Eliot gave out handmade gifts—scarves sewn from costume pieces, a second suit jacket for Quentin, a cropped velvet halter for Margo. Quentin, when things were winding down, gave Eliot a set of burgundy suspenders.

“Baby, they’re lovely.” Eliot ran a finger over the material, watching the heat in Quentin’s eyes with amusement.

“These are really more for me than they are for you,” he said sheepishly. He ducked his head to the side. 

“I do know how you feel about suspenders.”

Quentin giggled in his closed-mouth way, sputtering over his wine. “I feel a lot of ways about suspenders. And I like knowing that you’ll wear these and they’re from me. So it’s like—” Quentin nestled his head against Eliot’s shoulder. “—you’re mine.”

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Yeah? I am.” He kissed the spot behind Quentin’s ear, nosing at the soft down of his hair. “I have something else for you. I had it made—but I _bartered_ for it.” The women in their lives were meandering toward bedrooms, saying good night and ‘Merry Christmas,’ Fen practically carrying Margo to her room. 

“Don’t trip over yourself on the way to bed, Coldwater,” Kady said.

“He’ll trip over Eliot’s _dick_.” He heard Margo’s voice, faint, from upstairs.

“Uh, Merry Christmas.” Quentin waved at Kady tentatively.

“Night, Q,” Julia said.

When they were alone, Quentin turned to Eliot. “You have something you _bartered_ for?”

“Yeah, one of the theater management directors needed some tailoring done. And she makes these leather and tungsten necklaces—so—” Eliot reached beneath the tree and pulled out a little box. “—this is the part where I’d say I know it’s not much, but I’ll just say I hope you... _value_ it.” He put the box in Quentin’s hands.

When Quentin pulled the necklace out, his eyes went _soft_ in the way that he got, that big, tender look on his face. He handed it to Eliot, wordlessly, and Eliot fastened it, the bright oval nestled against the hollow of his neck. The braided leather sat flush with his pale-bright skin. “I’ve never had anything like this—I mean, no one’s ever given me _jewelry_.”

“I thought it was something you could wear—when you want to, I mean—and think of me.” It was _ludicrous_ that he could just _say that_ and know that Quentin loved him, that it was _okay_ for Eliot to _want_ Quentin to think of him.

Quentin drew him in, hands tangled in Eliot’s hair, kissing him and nipping at his lower lip. “I love you,” he said, between kisses. “I love you so much it’s stupid.”

“Me too,” Eliot said, not as a cop out but just because—him too. That was just it; that was the feeling. 

“I’ve got something for you, too. But it’s in our room.”

“Oh?” Eliot raised an eyebrow.

“It’s nothing like _that_ , okay? Don’t get too excited.”

“I hope it’s like that a little later.”

“If you’re lucky,” Quentin said. He snuggled in closer to Eliot.

“Baby, I can always get lucky with you. You’re so _easy_.” He tugged Quentin on his lap, and he came easily, pliant and warm, one hand wrapped around Eliot’s tie. They may or may not have gotten a little distracted at that point. Eliot couldn’t be held accountable. Quentin was wearing a Christmas sweater with reindeer, and he looked like he needed to be held.

When they wound their way. to Eliot’s bedroom, Quentin went in his overnight bag, packed with presents for Ted and Maryann, and retrieved a battered envelope. “You asked about the poems I wrote.”

“Hm?” Eliot pulled off his tie and hung it on the rack next to his closet.

“Don’t act coy. You asked about them like—twenty different times.”

“Oh, _those_ poems.”

“Yeah well. I wrote another one like—right after we got back together. I printed it for you last Christmas but I didn’t give it to you then. It was just—we were too new.”

Eliot nodded. He’d known, even then, that he was invested. He didn’t blame Quentin for not trusting it entirely. Even if he kept saying that he did. That wasn’t important anymore, was it. “You gonna read it to me?”

“Uh. No. Absolutely not. You can—I’m just going to give it to you.” He shoved the worn envelope in Eliot’s hand. “It uh. Doesn’t have a title. And it’s not very good—”

“Shush.” Quentin tried to snatch the envelope back from Eliot, but Eliot held it above his head, where Quentin couldn’t reach it. “I’m going to read it. And I won’t even make you listen to me read it, okay?”

“Fine.” Quentin said. He huffed and crossed his arms, fucking petulant for someone trying to give a Christmas gift. 

When Eliot opened the paper inside, he saw the words Quentin had printed on a piece of computer paper over a year ago now. His heart thumped, a whoosh in his ears. Sometimes he thought he was still getting used to the idea that he could even be loved, much less loved by someone that he wanted so much.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, Quentin next to him, and read:

> I wrote  
>  A number of sonnets  
>  And a sad short, too-long story  
>  When I left you.  
>  All of that frantic writing  
>  Fraught with the longing  
>  Of our brief history  
>  And the heat of loss. 
> 
> As I stood  
>  Empty-handed,  
>  Heartbeat-open to the cold world  
>  The crushing current of time moving  
>  Inexorable,  
>  All I wanted was  
>  Standing still  
>  Behind me.
> 
> The poems were all  
>  Frankly terrible;  
>  Trite and sloppy-structured  
>  Replete with false emotion.
> 
> A poem can only contain  
>  A certain number of things  
>  You don’t feel.  
>  Fill it with more  
>  Than fourteen lines  
>  Can contain,  
>  And it falls apart.
> 
> The story was my grief,  
>  A beating thing,  
>  A heart still ticking on  
>  Haphazard;  
>  A half-broken clock  
>  Telling bad time.  
>  The poems were  
>  The spite I did not feel  
>  A betrayal of all  
>  I’d come to love about you.
> 
> The truth of it is this:  
>  I could never  
>  Have never  
>  Felt the hate I should.  
>  Only wanted you:  
>  The touch of your shoulders,  
>  Limitless and broad  
>  The sway of your lips bleeding  
>  Into mine,  
>  The architecture of your hips  
>  In my hands,  
>  Solid and ceaseless.
> 
> And darling—  
>  Your return,  
>  I accepted you,  
>  Tender and quick,  
>  As if I’d been waiting,  
>  As if I’d expected things  
>  To right themselves,  
>  A puzzle recreating itself whole.
> 
> One shouldn’t rely  
>  On such fairytales  
>  As we tell ourselves.  
>  But had I been more pragmatic,  
>  I’d not be lying here  
>  Wrapped up in you,  
>  Smug,  
>  Knowing for once I was right.
> 
> The fragile pathways  
>  Of my mind  
>  So often broken  
>  And poorly mended  
>  Knew  
>  Had always known  
>  There was never a day  
>  I wouldn’t want you,  
>  Wouldn’t want you to stay.

Eliot had tears in his eyes by the time he finished, pulling Quentin into him and kissing him deep and hard as he laughed in embarrassment and tried to shove Eliot away.

“God, it’s really not—it’s just—it’s not even _good_.”

“I’m in theater, Quentin. I don’t know what poetry is supposed to look like.” That wasn’t necessarily true, but it made Quentin laugh, and he pushed his hair back behind his ear, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “And this—I like this.”

Eliot drew Quentin into a kiss, syrupy and slow, pressing his tongue along the seam of Quentin’s lips and pressing him into the mattress.

“You liked it?”

“Yeah.” He rucked up Quentin’s reindeer sweater and splayed one hand across his furred belly. This boy was going to be the end of him. Getting engaged didn’t sound all that terrifying, and that in itself was the most frightening thing.

Quentin’s body arched up beneath his hands and his lips went soft when Eliot kissed him again. 

It was good, he thought, to love someone beyond all reason—too quick, too much—as long as it was real.

They went to sleep sometime later, content in a world free of disasters they would thankfully never know.

**Author's Note:**

> There are references to Quentin’s canonical depression, institutionalization, and severe anxiety in this fic. He had panic attacks in chapter 16 and chapter 17; he takes medication for anxiety in chapter 18. There are references to Eliot’s canonical childhood abuse and allusions to his less than safe use of substances to staunch the flow of his emotions. As this is a “10 Things I Hate about You” AU, much of the story focuses on Eliot’s deceiving Quentin. It’s humorous and fluffy most of the way through, but you can guess how it goes when Q finds out. The angst at the end of chapter 17 up until midway through chapter 19 is a bit rough. I was going to do no smut, but lol, there’s a lot from chapter 14 on. Mind the tags! The Quentin/James tag is handled... more explicitly than the others.
> 
> Thanks to so many people. Thanks to OftheDirewolves for organizing this event. Thank you to Narumikaiko, incredible nerd-mom-fandom friend and beta. Not many people are lucky enough to have friends like you IRL. Thanks to my other betas and proofreaders: Rubickk, Cabiria, RedBlazer. Y'all came on this journey with me, and it's been incredible. I'm so glad I know all of you. Thank you so much to RedBlazer and Akisazame for taming my sex scenes and listening to plot drabble. Thanks, RedBlazer, for always telling me to fucking go for it and just being in my corner and reading ahead of time and all caps yelling at me about how much you’ve enjoyed it. Rubi, thanks for being an incredible cheerleader and friend. Thank you to Mizzy for listening to me when I started completely freaking out and talking me down about big bangs and fic in general. And to propinquitous and rizandace when I was not yet fully freaking out but getting there. Thanks to Aud and Tay for the incredible moral support and love. I am forever staggered by the bounty of kindness and talent in The Magicians fandom. 
> 
> To my IRL friends who are Queliot people but not fanfic people, thank you for reading bits and bobs, listening to my ranting, and loving me. I am overwhelmed by the bounty of love in my life.
> 
> Thank you to fishydwarrows for keyboard smashing at me while reading this story and doing me the GREATEST compliment ever and making 16 incredible pieces of art. Thanks to every peach and every plum for getting excited about this with me along the way and giving advice on Eliot's tux for prom. Thanks again to my best friends who don’t do fanfic but read my stuff anyway because they love me (and Queliot). You're fucking incredible. I love you.
> 
> This has been a labor of love. I found The Magicians in January of this year and started writing for the fandom in February. I signed up for this, catching the last available prompt as a pinch hitter. I have been working on this since the very beginning of quarantine. The first email from OftheDirewolves came on March 25, and I was assigned to work with Ev on April 11th. Ev was the only artist I really knew in the fandom at the time, and I was absolutely thrilled. They have been incredibly inspiring, generous, encouraging, and hardworking (are you surprised?) all along the way. They are, without a doubt, going to do incredible things, not just for the art world, but for the world at large and their generation. They give me hope that one day, we may see more justice, art, and kindness in the world. If you haven't followed them, go do it now: [Fishy's Twitter](https://twitter.com/wow__then) // [Fishy's Tumblr](https://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/)
> 
>   
> If you have a kudo or comment I’d love it! I know this big old thing will be released all at once, and I've never done that, so I’d appreciate any love you can give! 
> 
> If you wanna hear me scream about Magicians et al on Tumblr, I'm at [@hoko-onchi-writes](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hoko-onchi-writes). On Twitter I'm [@asavvymama](https://twitter.com/asavvymama), but I'm not there as much.


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